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A 


CROWN FROM THE SPEAR 


BY THE AUTHOR OF 


“WO VENT OF MANY THREADS.” 


u 


. * . , dabit Deus his quoque finem, 

Virgil. 

These vexing ills the hand of God will end. 



^ ' BOSTON: 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 

Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 

1872 . 

c_ 





Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, 
BY JAMES R . OSGOOD & CO., 
in the OfHce of tlio Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



Univrrsity Press : Wei gh, P.igklov.', & Co., 
Cambridge. 


/ will not write thy fianie upon this page 
For the wide eye of all the wo7-ld to see^ 

Nor will I blazon forth thy noble deeds ; 

Ffiough that they are known to God and me. 
Sti'aight to the garner of thy heai't I send 

This sheaf that I have gleaned., '77iid hopes a7id fears, 
From fields whe7"e I would fam have reaped with joy 
Fair fruit fro7n seeds 7iot wet, as these, 7vith tears. 


Su7 e of thy t7'uthful p7'aise, if p7'aise I earn, 

S7t7‘e of thy gentle bla77ie, if blame thou must. 

To thee I give this ha7‘vest of 7ny thoughts 
With ti77iid ha7id, but strong, imshaken trust. 
Accept 77iy waithig gift, a7id know thou well 

That I have 7vr ought my work to gain f7'07n thee 
The voice of just approval ; for I 7vould 

That thine should be the world's great voice to me. 


February, 1872. 



CONTENTS 


BOOK I. 


NOTRE DAME DE ROUEN. 

Page 

Proemial 1 

I.’ Fabien the Canon 2 

11. An Asylum 3 

III. Aim^:e 5 

IV. Assisting to capture One’s Self 7 

V. A Strange Legacy 9 

VI. How A Philosopher may die 11 

VII. The Young Count 13 


BOOK II. 

CHATEAU DE CLERMONT. 


I. Fabien the Archdeacon 15 

II. A Count, a Lily, and a Rose 17 

III. A Face at a Window 19 

IV. I CAN MAKE HIM USEFUL 21 

V. A Vagrant changed to a Priest 22 

VI. You MUST DECIDE FOR YOURSELF 24 

VII. There is but one May in a Year 27 

VIII. The Heart of a Priest is the Heart of a Man 29 

IX. The Alley of Sighs 32 

X. This is all we have found 36 

XL The Plot matures 40 

XII. Justice makes a Demand 45 

XIII. Crushing a Lily 49 


BOOK III. 
SARZEAU. 


1. “ The Setting of a great Hope ” 53 

H. Chateau of Sarzeau 59 

III. La Croix Verte 64 

IV. Almost a Defeat 71 

V. Cruel as Death 76 

VI. The Gratitude of a Poet 81 

VII. You MUST NOT SEE HIM AGAIN 88 

VIII. The Secret of the old Cabinet 93 

IX. Chateauroux 98 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK IV 

HOTEL BE VENTADOUR. 

I. “La Belle Dame sans Merci ” 103 

11. A Friday Evening at the Hotel Ventadour 107 

III. A Dinner in the Rue Castiglione 114 

IV. This and That 120 

V. In which Sir Edward’s Motive is Obvious 125 

VI. One of the Fortuitous Events that we call Fate .... 131 

VII. “Sternitur infelix alieno vulnere” 138 

VIII. Something more of Genevieve Gautier 144 

IX. Too LATE to save HIMSELF 151 

X. La Roquette 157 

XI. A Day of Wrath 163 

XII. Crowned at last 170 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR 


BOOK FIEST. 

NOTRE DAME DE ROUEN. 


PROEMIAL. 

B ETWEEN Havre and Paris, on the 
banks of the Seine, stands the 
ancient and picturesque city of Rouen. 
Its majestic and sombre aspect, its his- 
toric associations, its marvels of ecclesi- 
astical architecture, its mediaeval monu- 
ments, its labyrinths of winding streets, 
its quaint houses dim and dingy with 
the stains of time, the narrow windows 
looking like half-shut eyes from their 
queer gable faces, impress one with its 
antiquity as well as with its historical 
importance. 

In the centre of the town the ven- 
erable Cathedral of Notre Dame towers 
above the Place de la Pucelle, where the 
hapless Maid of Orleans was burned in 
1451. How often the stranger pauses to 
look with wonder and admiration at that 
immense pile ! Impressed with a feeling 
of almost awe, the eye wanders over the 
vast proportions of the Gothic fagade, 
following from point to point the exqui- 
site tracery and elaborate carving of the 
profuse ornamentation, until, nearly be- 
wildered by the complication of design, 
it seeks relief above, even to the summit 
of the lofty towers that stand like sen- 
tinels with their feet upon the earth and 
their heads wrapped in clouds. One 
enters reverently its deeply recessed 
and grandly sculptured portals, and 
gazes with serious delight down the 
mysterious and shadowy length of the 
nave, crossed with trembling rays of 
crimson and gold that fall from the 
great rose-window of delicate and ex- 
quisite design, flaming with the most 
brilliant colors blended with remarkable 
skill and beauty. 


In the choir these many-colored rays 
illuminate a tablet, let into the marble 
of the pavement, that marks the spot 
where the heart of Richard Coeur de 
Lion was interred ; his body rests at 
Fontevrault, but his lion heart he gave 
to Rouen because of his great love for 
Normandy. 

Behind the high altar is the interest- 
ing and elaborate monument of Cardinal 
d’Amboise, Archbishop of Rouen and 
Minister of Louis XII. The stranger 
who pauses to look at this may notice 
under his very feet a small black mar- 
ble cross on which is a half-effaced Latin 
inscription : — 

Infdidsmna. 

If he observes it, he may possibly kneel 
to Trace out the nearly obliterated let- 
ters, and in so doing he will discover 
another inscription crossing the original 
epitaph in minute characters : — 

Cor Meum Tecum Sepultum Est. 

A fearful tempest was abroad on the 
wings of the night, the thunder raved 
and roared around the solemn edifice ; 
the blue lightning flashed through the 
windows and down the deserted nave, 
illuminating carved capital and column, 
piercing even into the secret recesses of 
the groined roof, wrapping the marble 
images in a spectral light until they 
seemed to melt like phantoms into shad- 
ow. The great bell in the tower of St. 
Romain clanged and clashed the hour 
of midnight, when the eastern portal 
opened and a man entered, carrying a 
lantern, the feeble light of which made 
but a faint ring under the flame of the 
tempest. He was followed by a silent 


1 


2 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


and stately companion, who glided in his 
shadow, like a mournful spirit, through 
the nave and across the transept to the 
high altar, where stood a catafalque sup- 
porting a coffin covered with a velvet 
pall. Eight tall candles threw a sickly 
light over the kneeling figure of a priest, 
who crossed himself from time to time, 
muttering Ora pro nohis in a sepulchral 
voice. The man who entered first set 
down his lantern and drew back the vel- 
vet pall, revealing a silver plate on which 
was engraved a heart pierced with a 
spear, and below it the word Aimee, 
The air seemed to tremble with a sigh 
as the tall figure drew near and looked 
upon the placid face of the sleeper ; then 
he fell on his knees, and, leaning his 
head against the coffin, sharp, short sobs 
burst from his lips, — the convulsive 
moans of those who cannot weep. Be- 
neath his black mantle were visible the 
crimson-corded robe, the violet sash and 
heavy chain of a dignitary of the Church. 
It was Monseigneur the Archbishop of 
Rouen who wept wuth his head against 
the coffin that contained the body of 
a young and lovely woman, — young, 
although the eyes were sunken and the 
mass of hair that fell back from her 
forehead was as white as snow. 

Every day when the great rose-window 
burns like a fiery eye under the level 
rays of the setting sun, the Archbishop 
of Rouen enters the eastern portal with 
a stately step, and crosses the nave to 
the high altar ; there, dismissing his 
servant who follows him, he falls on his 
knees upon the cross, clasps his hands 
over his heart, utters a dreary sigh, 
bows his head, and remains long in 
silent prayer. 

When he leaves the spot, there are 
tears on the epitaph. 


PART FIRST. 

FABIEN THE CANON. 

“ A FINE morning,” said Fabien, the 
canon and secretary t-o his lordship 
the Archbishop of Rouen, as he re- 
turned the profound reverence of the 
wizened old woman ^who raised the 


leather curtain that hung over the east* 
ern portal of the Cathedral. 

“Yes, monseigneur, a fine clear morn- 
ing to see Rouen from the Tour de 
Burre. I wish God would give me a 
little more strength, that I might creep 
up to the platform again and see the 
blessed city below me. Ah ! ” with a 
dolorous shake of the head, “ the desire 
always remains, monseigneur, the heart 
is always young, even after old age 
takes away the strength.” 

“ Is it possible 1 Is the heart always 
young { ” murmured Fabien in a dreamy 
voice, as the leather curtain fell behind 
him with a flap that started out a cloud 
of dust and drowned the old woman’s 
quavering voice. “ Is the heart ahvays 
young 1 ” he repeated slowly as he 
crossed the transept and nave to the 
little door opening on the staircase that 
leads to the Tour de Burre. “ Her 
philosophy, simple, ignorant old soul, is 
the philosophy of an age long past ; 
yes, to such as she the heart may be 
always young, for, after all, it is not 
time that wears a thing out, it is use. 
Rationalists tell us that the heart, the 
soul, the mind, are one. If so, then 
such clods may well have young hearts, 
for they use them but little. I am 
twenty-five to-day, and I am older than 
that old crone. I have lived centuries, 
because I have gained the knowledge of 
centuries, because to-day I understand 
all that has exhausted time since the 
creation to develop. All that the re- 
search of ages and the experiments of 
science, all that theology and metaphys- 
ics have revealed, I am master of. What 
does it matter if we have lived a few years 
more or less, if we have the experience 
of ages'! ‘ Knowledge is power, knowl- 
edge is power,’ ” he repeated again and 
again as he hurried up the winding 
steps ; “ knowledge alone is power, but 
knowledge combined with wealth is 
double power. I have toiled all the 
years of my life for the first ; now,” 
clasping his hands with a sharp and 
energetic stroke, “ now for the other. I 
am sure of myself, the power is within 
me. I mil conquer every obstacle and 
attain my end. What emoluments, what 
honors, the Church offers to her zealous 
disciples ! literature, science, art, are all 
very well to serve as means, but these 


CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


3 


puerilities belong to feeble souls; he 
who would climb must use religion as a 
ladder, and the Church as his topstone 
of power.” 

He went on rapidly, flight after flight, 
never pausing to rest for a moment, his 
body as erect, his step as firm, as though 
he were walking on level ground. When 
he reached the summit of the Tour de 
Burre and stepped out on the platform, 
he seemed not at all exhausted from his 
great exertion. There was something 
in the clear eyes, the tightly closed 
lips, the firm and defiant step, that 
showed the strength of the man’s will. 
For a moment he leaned over the para- 
pet and looked into the square below. 
There seemed to be some unusual com- 
motion ; a number of people were gath- 
ered before the western portal of the 
Cathedral, and several mounted gen- 
darmes were galloping across the place. 
So absorbed was he in his ambitious 
scheming, that he scarce noticed this 
unwonted stir ; and if he had, he would 
not have been curious to know the 
cause. His gaze wandered away from 
the scene below him to the banks of 
the Seine, until it rested upon the white 
turrets of the Chateau de Clermont 
rising distinct above the thick forest 
that surrounded them. A sort of vin- 
dictive joy sparkled in his eyes, and, 
clasping his hands fiercely, he paced the 
platform with long, rapid strides. “ Ah ! 
there is the source from whence must 
flow my golden river ; step by step I am 
approaching it. It has been a toilsome 
journey, first to gain knowledge, then to 
gain the esteem and confidence of sus- 
pecting humanity, who give to one 
grudgingly, mite by mite, doling them 
out as a miser does his cherished hoard. 
But what right have I to complain '? I 
who was an outcast, nameless, friend- 
less, a dependant on the bounty of 
strangers, wronged, cheated out of my 
birthright and inheritance, commencing 
at the base, even in the dirt and mire ! 
I have toiled so far up this steep ascent. 
I am now above the level of the herd. 
I feel the breath of the mountains upon 
my brow. But beyond me are still 
greater heights which I must reach. 
The path is dangerously steep, uncer- 
tain, almost impracticable ; but I am 
not dismayed ; I will persevere and 


stand on the topmost summit. An 
heroic soul, an unflinching will, is im- 
pelled onward by difficulties ; the 
greater they are, the more desire is 
there to conquer them. How I have 
delved, how I have dug into the mines 
of knowledge, that I might find the 
rare gems below the ken of superficial 
seekers ! I have explored the mysteries 
of the Cabala; that wonderful science 
has been my study day and night ; the 
Zohar is my code ; the languages of the 
past, most hidden among the things 
hidden, are as familiar to me as house- 
hold words. Alchemy has revealed to 
me its secrets and its marvellous laws. 
Metaphysics have become to me but a 
repetition of commonplace dogmas. I 
have analyzed all, and each particle is 
before me separated from all foreign 
matter. I can weigh them in the mi- 
nutest scale, and my nice balance is 
my judgment. The ignorant look upon 
me as a sorcerer. I am a sorcerer, for 
knowledge is sorcery. Fabien the can- 
on, at twenty-five, has more within the 
circle of his brain than the oldest doc- 
tor of the schools. Laus Deo for such 
power. My peers look upon me with 
amazement. Honors are being heaped 
upon me. The Archbishop has made 
me a canon and his private secretary ; 
through this channel I will discover all 
the secrets of the Church and State. 
The old Count de Clermont is dying, 
and he has chosen me to be tutor and 
guardian of his only son ; there is the 
source from which I must draw my 
wealth. I will avenge my mother and 
reap a rich harvest from the fields out 
of which she was driven. It is but a 
pace from a canon to a deacon, and 
then a natural gradation to an arch- 
deacon, a step upward to a bishop, and 
the hat of a cardinal does not press 
heavily after the mitre of an arch- 
bishop.” 


PART SECOND. 

AN ASYLUM. 

The platform of the Tour de Burre 
was a favorite promenade of Fabien the 
canon. First, because before reaching 
it there was a difficulty to overcome. 


4 


A CEOWN FEOM THE SPEAE. 


In mounting the hundreds of steps, he 
tested his indomitable will and his phys- 
ical strength. Secondly, it presented the 
greater attraction of being ajDove the 
world, and consequently isolated and 
free from intrusion. There his unfet- 
tered fancy soared highest, shook off, 
for the time, the shackles with which 
the lower world and his necessary in- 
tercourse with men heavily trammelled 
him. There he could scheme and plan 
more clearly, because the fresh breeze 
at that height seemed to blow away 
the cobwebs from his brain, seemed to 
quicken and strengthen his intellect, 
that sometimes became a little dull and 
weak from pouring over musty old 
parchments and time-stained manu- 
scripts. There, when he worked him- 
self up to a frenzy of self-laudation and 
anticipated glory, at which times he de- 
sired to hear his success sounded in his 
own ears, he could shout them aloud, 
and there was no living thing to listen, 
only the thousands of swallows that 
built in every niche, and they would 
not reveal his secrets. There he could 
madden himself by repeating over and 
over the wrongs of his life, by doing 
which he fanned a fire of hate and re- 
venge that he never allowed to become 
extinguished ; and when that fire some- 
times burned too fiercely, threatening 
to break into open conflagration, when 
the strong will was necessary to subdue 
and deaden it, he found a powerful aid 
in the physical exertion required to 
reach the spot, where alone and unmo- 
lested he could bare his head and breast 
to the breeze, shout, curse, wring his 
hands, and tear back and forth like an 
infuriated tiger. 

There were tempests in this man that 
must break forth at times and rage 
with fearful strength, but no living be- 
ing had ever witnessed them. Only the 
wandering wind and the moaning sea 
had heard his frenzied cries, and they 
kept their secret. 

This morning he had hurried there 
to congratulate himself on an event 
which he considered the most important 
of his life, and for which he had striven 
with unwearied diligence. He had at 
last succeeded, after many rebufts and 
discouragements, in gaining the confi- 
dence and friendship of the Count de 


Clermont, who was dying, and who, on 
that very morning, had sent for him, 
and after acknowledging, in words that 
were honey to the listener, his admira- 
tion of his superior talents and his 
esteem for his character, had besought 
him, in feeble but earnest tones, to be- 
come the guardian and tutor of his only 
son, who would soon be an orphan, and 
the sole survivor of the family of Cler- 
mont. That he, Fabien, the poor young 
scholar, should be chosen from among 
all whom the Count had honored with 
his friendship, was indeed a proof of 
confidence rarely bestowed. A few more 
days and he would receive into his 
charge this child, the only heir to the 
rich estate of Clermont, all of whose 
treasures would be given into his keep- 
ing ; and he had resolved that he would 
guard them well, for when that which 
he had so long coveted was once within 
his grasp it should remain there. 

“ It is sooner than I expected, but 
not too soon,” he said, as he gazed at 
the turrets of the chateau, with greedy 
speculation in his eyes and inexpressi- 
ble satisfaction in his voice. 

So absorbed was Fabien with his 
own ambitious plans, that he did not 
observe he was no longer alone, for 
suddenly another person appeared on 
the platform, who, seeing it was already 
occupied, turned to flee ; but he was too 
late, for at that moment Fabien turned 
also, and their eyes met. The priest 
uttered an exclamation, half of sur- 
prise, half of terror, for he had never 
before seen such an object; even he, 
stoic though he was, could scarce believe 
it to be human. He had a ghastly face, 
covered with a short, bristling beard, 
cropped white hair standing up on 
his head as if in mortal fear; wild, 
bloodshot eyes, and drawn lips, parched 
and blackened with fever and thirst, re- 
vealing a row of long yellow teeth that 
snapped together like a hungry wolf’s. 
A few tattered rags that had once been 
a convict’s dress partially clothed a 
gaunt, meagre form that was bowed as 
though a hundred years pressed upon 
it, and his bare, emaciated feet and 
bony hands were covered with dirt and 
bruises. 

Mon Dieuf who are you? and, in 
the name of Heaven, where did you 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


5 


come from?” gasped Fabien, after a 
moment’s survey. 

The poor wretch replied not a word, 
but dropped upon his knees as though 
his lower limbs were palsied, and, clasp- 
ing his hands, raised his haggard face 
with eyes so full of anguish and en- 
treaty that they smote the heart of Fa- 
bien with sudden pain. He did not 
like to be so easily softened and touched 
to pity, so it was with no very gentle 
grasp that he took the intruder by the 
shoulder, and, shaking him, said again 
sternly, “ Who are you 1 ” 

The man’s head and hands fell 
despondently, and tears gathered in his 
eyes as he replied with a heavy, long- 
drawn sigh, and with hopelessness in his 
voice, “ I am an escaped convict. I 
have sought an asylum here, here in 
the house of God. You are his priest, 
and you will not betray me? I am 
starving,” he cried, starting from his 
attitude of despair, while his teeth 
gleamed between his parched lips, — 
“ I am starving ! and how am I to get 
food ? Here there is nothing but bare 
stones ! ” And he glanced around with 
famished scrutiny. 

“ Starving,” repeated Fabien in a 
softened voice ; “ poor wretch ! what 
crime has brought you to this?” 

The creature tottered upright, and, 
leaning heavily against the stone balus- 
trade for support, laid his emaciated 
hand on the arm of the priest, and 
said in a husky whisper, Listen, and 
I will tell you what I have never yet 
confessed to any one. I have com- 
mitted no crime ; another sinned, and 
I, to keep an oath made to one I 
loved, suffer the ptnalty. For four 
years, for four dead years, I have been 
chained and driven like a beast ; I have 
suffered hunger, cold, and heat ; I have 
been bound to a creature I loathed ; I 
have cursed the night, and longed for 
day, and when the day came I cursed 
it and longed for the night. All the 
slow moments of four years have dragged 
along in agony. I have become old 
before my time, bowed and crushed, 
scorned and smitten even of God. And 
yet I have endured all this to keep an 
oath I made to one dying, to serve one 
I loved more than life or liberty. It 
wanted four days to complete four years, 


when I escaped from what was to have 
been half a life of cruel servitude. I 
went back to my home. It was desolate 
and deserted. My wife was dead, and 
my child was in the house of a stranger. 
I stole my child. She did not know 
me, for she was but a babe when I was 
taken to prison; and she feared me, 
and struggled to free herself from my 
arms, and wept and implored to be taken 
back to those who had robbed me of her 
love. I have walked day and night, 
carrying her in my arms. Avoiding the 
highways, I have toiled over rough fields, 
through forests, across mountains and 
hills, under the burning sun and the 
chilling dews ; sometimes, believing I 
was pursued, I have hidden in hedges, 
in ditches, and in caves. My feet have 
been wounded by the broken stones and 
rough ways. My hands have been tom by 
the thorns and brambles through which 
I have forced a passage. I have begged 
morsels of black bread from the shep- 
herds and peasants, I have gathered 
fruit and berries, but I have eaten none 
myself, so that she should not suffer 
hunger. I have given her the water I 
drained from the scanty rivulets, while 
I famished with the thirst of fever. 
And yet my child fears me and looks 
upon me with horror. To-day I could 
go no farther. My strength failed, and 
God’s temple, that is closed to none, 
offered me an asylum. I thought among 
some of the dark passages, the cells, the 
towers, or even the vaults, I might find 
a hiding-place from the searching eye 
of justice. But I must have food for 
ray child and myself, for I am fainting 
with hunger, and these bare stones 
offer nothing.” 

He had spoken with a desperate eager- 
ness. His features were convulsed, and 
his voice was broken with sobs that 
ended in a prayer as he clasped his hands 
and fell again on his knees, crying, 
“ Bread ! monseigneur, bread for my 
starving child ! ” 


PART THIRD. 

AIMEE. 

“Where is she?” inquired Fabien, 
in a suffocated voice, for he felt like one 


6 


A CHOWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


in a nightmare, who arouses himself 
only by a strong exertion of his will. 
In all the suffering he had witnessed, he 
had never seen a human being so ut- 
terly crushed and wretched, and he had 
never before listened to a tale of w'oe 
recited with such pathos and despair. 
“ Where is she he repeated ; for the 
man’s head had fallen on his breast, and 
he seemed in a sort of stupor. At the 
priest’s question he looked up, and 
pointed silently down the stairs to the 
bell -tower. 

Concealed in an angle of the tower by 
a great coil of rope, and almost covered 
by a huge projecting gargoyle, carved in 
the form of a monster, crouched a child 
of about five years. She was amusing 
herself by thrusting a stone into the 
open jaws of the monster, which rolled 
out directly, while with a dreary signifi- 
cance she persisted in returning what 
could not be eaten to the mouth that 
could not eat, repeating over and over 
in a pitiful, whining voice, “Give me 
something to eat ! Give me something 
to eat ! ” 

The moment her eyes fell upon Fa- 
bien she dropped the stone, and, spring- 
ing toward him, seized his hand and 
cried imploringly, “ Give me something 
to eat ! ” 

The touch of her hand, or the wist- 
ful expression of the eyes raised to his, 
visibly affected the priest ; for he said in 
the gentlest and kindest voice, “ Pauvre 
petite / Have patience for a few mo- 
ments and you shall be fed ; remain here 
■with your father, and I will fetch you 
some food at once.” 

“ My father ! He is not my father.” 
And she drew up her little mouth with 
scorn, as her eye followed the glance 
Fabien directed toward the miserable 
creature at his side. “ He is not my 
father. He is a thief who stole me from 
my home, where I had a bed to sleep 
in and plenty to eat. I hate him ! I 
hate him ! ” she added vehemently, 
while she still clung to the priest’s hand. 

The convict said not a word, but the 
large tears rolled slowly over his hag- 
gard face, and dropped one by one on 
the pitiful hands he clasped in silent 
entreaty. 

Fabien glanced from one to the other, 
his heart filled with commiseration for 


both^ while he gently tried to disengage 
his hand from the clinging clasp of the 
little child. 

At that moment the sound of voices 
and the tramping of feet mounting the 
stairs, with now and then the clanking 
of a spur and the clashing of a sabre, 
told that the new-comers were armed. 

The face of the poor convict gi’ew 
more ghastly if possible, and a groan 
burst from his full heart as he said, 
“It is the gendarmes. They are after 
me. Where shall I conceal myself] 
0, save me, save me ! ” 

Fabien glanced around. There was 
no place safe from the intrusion of the 
law. His first impulse w^as to hide the 
poor wretch, but where ] Below there 
w'ere numbers of dark cells and vaults 
w’here he would be as secure as though 
he were hidden in his grave ; but here 
all was open and exposed to the light of 
day. They could not go down, because 
of the officers who were ascending, and 
above them was nothing but the plat- 
form, parapet, and blue heavens. 

A few feet below the platform of the 
bell-tower projected a ledge of stone 
some fifteen inches wide, that formed 
the top of a carred cornice. Looking 
eagerly from one of the open arches, 
the hunted creature caught sight of 
this. If he could drop down to it and 
lie close against the face of the tower, 
he might escape detection. To think, 
in his case, w^as to act. He clasped the 
reluctant child in a frenzied embrace, 
kissed the hand of the priest, and then 
disappeared through the open arch. 

Fabien watched with a shudder the 
thin, brown fingers clutch convulsively 
the projecting or^^aments, as he slid 
down to his terrible hiding-place. His 
feet touched the ledge, and he wTithed, 
serpent-like, to a prostrate position. As 
his eye fell on the dizzy depths below 
him, the priest saw a shiver pass through 
his battered frame. 

Before Fabien had fairly turned from 
the open arch, the helmeted heads of 
the gendarmes appeared above the 
stairs. The leader started back in 
astonishment when he found his way 
barred by the tall black-robed form of 
the young priest. However, he touched 
his helmet respectfully, and said, while 
he directed his searching glance into 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


7 


every corner of the bell- tower, “We are 
in pursuit of an escaped couvict, who, 
we are assured, took refuge here a short 
time ago. Have you seen him ] ” 

Fabien did not answer at once ; and 
while he hesitated, one of the men 
nudged another, saying, in a low voice, 
with a significant wink, “We have him 
now, the priest won’t dare to lie.” 

Fabien did not fear a lie, but he did 
fear being detected in one, and there- 
fore he did not reply to the direct ques- 
tion of the officer, who fixed upon him 
his inquisitorial eye. There was no 
evading ; so he said, in a firm and de- 
fiant voice, “ Yes, I have seen him.” 

“ Where is he 1 ” 

“I am not obliged to answer that 
question,” 

“ What ! ” said the officer, taking a 
high tone, “ is it possible you wish to 
defraud justice by assisting a condemned 
convict to escape % ” 

“ I have offered him no assistance,” 
replied Fabien, stolidly. 

Again the officer resorted to the 
majesty of the law. “Justice demands 
that you should reveal his hiding-place. 
Did he descend 1 ” 

“ He descended,”^ replied the priest, 
curtly. 

“ How long since 1 ” 

“ A few moments ago.” 

“That is not true,” said the officer, 
sententiously, — “ that is not true. My 
men have been stationed below, and 
every avenue of escape has been guard- 
ed since he entered the door leading to 
this tower.” 

By this time four or five more armed 
men had mounted to the platform, each 
equally eager to be the first to discover 
the hiding-place of the poor trembling 
wretch. 

“ Here is the child,” cried one, as his 
eye fell upon the little girl, almost 
hidden by the mantle of the priest. 

“ Yes, he carried a child in his arms,” 
said another; “here is the child, but 
where is the man 1 ” 

A feeling of terror began to take 
possession of the ignorant gendarmes; 
they thought some singular transfor- 
mation had taken place, and that the 
priest and the convict were one and 
the same. 

The officer, seeing the confusion of his 


men, determined to make another effort 
to solve the enigma. Taking hold of 
the impish-looking little child, who still 
clung to Fabien’s mantle, he placed her 
before him, and raising his finger threat- 
eningly, said, in a voice of awful majesty, 
“Remember. Nothing but the truth. 
Where is your father 1 ” • 

“ In ChMeauroux,” replied the child, 
gravely. 

Whereupon, in spite of the majesty of 
the law, all laughed, except the priest and 
the questioner. The child’s countenance 
never changed as she turned her great 
eyes seriously from one to the other. 
The officer looked sternly at his men, 
and said, “No trifling ! ” then to the 
child in the same tone of command, 
“ Listen again. What is your namel” 

“ Aim^e.” 

“ Who brought you here 1 ” 

“ A wicked man.” 

“ Where is he ? ” 

“ There,” said she, pointing to the 
arch through which the convict had 
disappeared. 


PART FOURTH. 

ASSISTING TO CAPTURE ONE’s SELF. 

Fabien sprang at the child, dashing 
down the little hand that pointed to 
the arch ; but he was too late, all saw 
the action, and all rushed simultane- 
ously to the opening. 

“Yes, here he is,. sure enough,” came 
from the one who was so fortunate as 
to thrust his head out first and there- 
by to make the important discovery. 
“ Here he is, but morhleu ! how are we 
to get at him 1 ” 

Precisement, how are we to get at 
him U’ said another, peeping out. “No 
one will risk his life by going down 
there for him.” 

And now each one was as anxious to 
shirk the glory of the capture as he 
had been before to desire it. 

“ Is there really much danger 1 ” said 
the officer, venturing forward and look- 
ing down, while he debated in his mind 
whether he had not gained enough 
honor during the expedition by the 
clever way in which he had led the 
miserable little child to point out the 


8 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


hiding-place of her father. ‘‘I will 
give some one else a chance to distin- 
guish himself,” he thought, as he drew 
back. 

By the time the poor convict knew 
he was discovered, the strongest desire 
in his heart was to be rescued from his 
perilous situation, for he could not sup- 
port his cramped and painful position, 
and he felt that to move was to plunge 
himself into the abyss below. The de- 
sire for liberty is the strongest feeling 
of our nature, next to the desire for 
life, and that is paramount to all else. 
Feeling that death was inevitable if he 
remained there, the poor wretch was now 
as anxious to be captured as he was before 
to evade it; but how to effect it, was 
the question that floated through his 
confused brain. If he writhed to an 
upright position and stretched his arms 
to their extreme length, he could not 
reach the projecting ledge from which 
he had dropped, and the face of the 
smooth stone presented nothing to cling 
to. Despair took possession of his soul. 
Would they abandon him to his fate, 
starving, famishing, suspended above a 
frightful abyss 1 The galleys, the chains, 
the toil under the scorching sun, the 
privation, the misery, anything was 
better than the horrible death he con- 
templated from his dizzy height. 

When the officer drew back with his 
generous resolve, Fabien drew near and 
looked down again on the suffering 
man ; while the child, always at his side, 
peeped timidly over, and then with a 
sigh of relief said, in a voice loud 
enough to fall distinctly upon the ear 
of her father, “ I am so glad he is 
there, and that no one will help to get 
him up.” 

Again Fabien saw a shiver convulse 
the poor creature. Malheureme ! ” he 
cried, pushing the child away ; “ are 
you an imp of Satan 1 ” Then turning 
to the men, “ Some of you throw a rope 
to this unhappy wretch, or in a moment 
his brains will be dashed out on the 
pavement below.” 

“ 0 yes, a rope,” they all cried. 
“Why did we not think of that at 
first!” 

In a moment the active executors of 
justice appropriated a part of the coil 
attached to the bell, and lowered it to 


the wretched convict, who clutched it 
convulsively, thereby eagerly assisting 
to capture himself. As soon as he was 
drawn to the platform of the tower, the 
heroic officer stepped forward and, lay- 
ing his hand upon the exhausted 
man, pronounced him his prisoner. 
Weak from fasting, fear, and the exer- 
tion to save himself, he made no re- 
sistance ; but there was something 
more touching than resistance in the 
look of pitiful reproach he turned upon 
Fabien, as he said, “You betrayed me ! ” 

The priest did not reply ; he preferred 
that the convict should believe it to 
have been he, rather than the child, 
who made known his hiding-place. 

“ No, it was not. monseigneur,” re- 
plied the officer in a voice of severe 
reproof. “ Much to my surprise, he 
tried to defend justice by refusing to 
tell us where you were. If it had not 
been for the child, you would have es- 
caped, and w^e should have had our 
labor for nothing, and the majesty of 
the law would have been dishonored, 
and justice defrauded, and — and — ” 
Here the indignant speaker’s eloquence 
failed him, and he took refuge in a fit of 
coughing. 

“ Was it my child who betrayed 
me ! ” said the convict in broken tones. 

“She says she is not your child,” 
continued the officer, who had recovered 
his voice. “ If she is not your child, 
what right have you with her % ” 

“ 0 mon capitaine ! she is my child,’* 
he cried, wringing his hands with an- 
guish. “ But she does not know it. She 
was a babe when I went to prison, and 
it is four years ; she does not know me ; 
beside, look at me ! ” , And he glanced at 
his tatters with deplorable self-abasement. 
“ I am a horror to myself, it is no won- 
der the child fears me.” Then, covering 
his face with his hands, he burst into 
sobs that shook him as though he were 
a reed swayed by the wind. 

“ Come, that is enough,” said the 
officer, turning his back to his men; 
“you must go with us, the law must 
be enforced.” 

“Yes, the law must be enforced,” 
echoed the others. 

“ Come here, my child, come to your 
father,” said the prisoner, trying to 
smile encouragingly as he held out his 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


9 


arms. . The smile was a ghastly effort, 
more pitiful than his sobs. 

Fabien pushed the reluctant little 
creature toward him ; he clutched her, 
and drew her to his embrace, almost 
stifling her with tears and kisses. 

“ Poor little child,” he said with 
intense love in his voice ; “ my precious 
Aimee, my little darling, you have for- 
gotten your poor father. Once you loved 
me so you would cry when I left yon, 
and hold out your little dimpled hands 
and scream ‘with joy when I retunied ; 
and when I took you in my arms you 
would rub your soft cheek against my 
hair and beard. 0 my God ! I have 
felt jmur loving caresses, your soft arms 
around my neck, for all these years. 
That memory has kept me alive. It 
has been light and air, bread and water, 
hope and faith, all, all; for that I did 
not sink into a besotted brute. I 
strove to keep alive all that was good 
in my nature ; morning and night I 
prayed to God that he would not 
obliterate that memory from my heart. 
Sometimes, when the weight of my 
chains pressed too heavily, and I feared 
mj^ reason would leave me forever, and 
I should be in utter darkness, the 
thought of thy bright little face would 
lighten all around me. It was for thee 
I tried to escape, that I might hold thee 
once again to my heart, that I might 
feel thy little face pressed against mine, 
that I might hear thee say. Father. But 
thou hast forgotten me, and thou hast 
only fear and horror of me. I must go 
back again to my chains, to suffering, 
despair, and death, with the knowledge 
that my child fears me and hates me. 
Does not your little heart tell you I am 
your father? Is there no memory of 
your sweet infancy to plead for me ? ” 
he implored. “ My heart is breaking ! 
;My child, tell me but once you love 
me, call me father but once, and I will 
go back to my imprisonment happy.” 

“No, no, you are not my father, and 
I do not love you,” she cried, passion- 
ately struggling to free herself from his 
embrace. “ I love my good papa in 
Chateauroux, and I want to go back to 
him. I am afraid of you and I hate 
you.” 

The countenance of the convict fell 
into settled hopelessness ; he put the 


child away from him suddenly, and 
turning toward Fabien, who stood with 
bent head and folded arms, so absorbed 
in thought as to seem unmindful of what 
was passing, he said in a voice of intense 
entreaty : “ Monseigneur, have pity on 
me ; you see how my heart is torn, you 
have witnessed my agony ; for the love 
of God, take care of my child. Do not 
let her come to want and sin ; teach her 
to be virtuous ; never speak to her of her 
father, it is better she should not know 
what he has been. I leave her to you. 
If I survive the term of my imprison- 
ment, I will demand her from you. If 
death frees me from my sufferings, here- 
after, in the presence of God, you must 
account to me for my child.” 

Without looking at Aimee, who had 
drawn near the officer and was playing 
with the tassel of his sash, he tottered 
to the head of the staircase and began 
to descend. 

The men gathered near the arch were 
looking persistently toward the Seine, 
while the officer seemed to be clearing 
his vision from some obstruction. When 
they saw the convict turn to go down, 
they touched the fronts of their helmets 
to the priest, and followed their prisoner. 


PART FIFTH. 

A STRANGE LEGACY. 

Fabien stood for a moment looking 
with feelings of mingled distrust, pity, 
and dislike at the child thus suddenly 
thrust upon him. 

“What am 1 to do with her?” he 
thought. “ Such an unfeeling little 
wretch, and such a strange-looking ob- 
ject. She is so ugly one can never love 
her, and she is so wicked one can scarcely 
pity her. What am I to do with her ? 
She is certainly a most troublesome 
legacy to be left to a priest.” 

When he thought she was a strange 
looking object, he thought correctly ; for 
a more impish, weird-looking little crea- 
ture, with folded hands and ridiculously 
grave face, never disturbed the peace of 
a celibate. 

Her head was too large and too well 
developed for her body ; her great eyes 


10 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


had the thoughtful, anxious expression 
of one well acquainted with life and its 
cares ; her lips, serious and firmly closed, 
had no line or curve of dimpled child- 
hood ; her forehead was low and full, and 
seemed already to bear traces of deep 
thought ; yet there was something in 
her face that attracted the interest of 
the priest. He saw plainly stamped 
there embryo passions of startling in- 
tensity. On the little face were written 
a strong will, powerful cunning, and 
a deep intelligence, such as are rarely 
seen in a child. There was something 
exceedingly graceful in her move- 
ments, in spite of her disproportionate 
head, — a clinging, serpent-like charm 
that seemed to coil around the priest 
against his inclination. There was a 
treacherous softness and sweetness in 
her voice, an inscrutable puzzling ex- 
pression in her eyes, that always evaded 
his glance, a something in her tout en- 
semble that disturbed and fascinated 
him. 

While Fabien looked at her, making 
his mental estimate of her character, 
she was also gravely surveying him 
from head to foot. Her eyes wandered 
slowly over his handsome face, down his 
black-robed, elegant figure, to the small 
feet that stood so firmly, and turned 
outward at just the right angle. In 
appearance he was a most prepossessing 
canon, and the child felt it, for she 
drew near him and slipped her little 
hand into his, saying, “You are so 
handsome I like you, and I will go 
with you.” Then she added in a more 
childish tone, as nature asserted itself, 
“ I am so hungry. Will you give me 
something to eat % ” 

“Yes, come with me, and you shall 
eat your fill, although you deserve to 
starve and die, you wicked little crea- 
ture,” he said, impatiently, as he drew 
her after him down the stairs. “Why 
did you tell the soldiers where your 
father was 1 ” 

“ Because I wanted them to take him 
away,” she replied, firmly. “ I am glad 
he is gone. You will give me some- 
thing to eat, and a bed to sleep in, 
won’t youl and let me stay with you 
always. I like you even better than 
my papa in Chateauroux. He is old and 
poor, but he was good to me, and gave 


me a goat, and plenty to eat ; but that 
wicked old man took me away to starve 
me, and made me sleep on the ground 
with nothing but his ragged, dirty jacket 
to cover me ; and all day I cried for 
my papa and my little goat, and he 
would not take me back, but walked 
always so fast, telling me we should soon 
come to the sea, where we should find a 
great ship, and afterward plenty to eat 
in another country across the water. 
Now I am glad the soldiers did not let 
him go any farther, because I have found 
you, and I like you; you are not a bit 
like Monsieur le Cur6 in Chateauroux ; 
he is fat and ugly, but you are so hand- 
some.” And she raised her eyes to the 
face of the priest with such a look of 
earnest admiration that he almost 
blushed. Flattery even from a child, 
was pleasant to him ; he had known so 
little of the sweet amenities of life, that 
its newness charmed him, and softened 
his heart to the little serpent who was 
creeping into it even without his knowl- 
edge and against his will. 

When Fabien crossed the nave to the 
eastern portal it seemed as though he 
had been a long time away, and that 
something had changed in his life. A 
feeling like a nightmare hung around 
him, and he would almost have believed 
the whole scene to have been a dream, 
or the working of a diseased imagina- 
tion, if it had not been for the little 
creature who trotted at his side. The 
old woman at the door uttered an ex- 
clamation of surprise, and crossed her- 
self, when he raised the curtain and 
pushed the child out before him. She 
did not know what had transpired at 
the western portal, by which the gen- 
darmes had entered, so she knew noth- 
ing of the capture of the convict, and 
consequently could not understand 
where the canon had found the child. 

“ You did not get her from Heaven,” 
she exclaimed, while she regarded the 
sudden apparition with fear and curi- 
osity ; “ no, you did not get her from 
Heaven, for she looks as though she 
came from below. I am afraid she is a 
changeling ! ” And she crossed herself 
again. 

Fabien smiled as he said, “ I found 
her in the bell-tower, feeding a water- 
spout with stone. She may have come 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


11 


from below, I cannot say, but in any 
case she won’t harm you, my good wo- 
man. You must not be afraid of her, 
you must take her home to your daugh- 
ter directly. Poor little thing ! she is 
hungry and dirty ; give her plenty of 
food, wash her, and dress her in clean 
clothes.” And putting some silver into 
the old woman’s hand, he added, im- 
pressively, “ Remember to make her 
comfortable, and to-morrow I will give 
you as much more.” 

The old crone hesitated. “ Go at 
once and do as I tell you ; to-morrow I 
will find some other place for her, but 
to-day you must take her to your 
daughter,” he said, sternly. 

There was no refusing the canon 
when he spoke in that tone, and espe- 
cially when he was so generous with his 
silver. So the old woman hobbled up, 
took her box for alms, her dirty knit- 
ting, and her three-legged stool under 
one arm, while she reached out her 
other hand reluctantly to the child, 
who still clung to the priest’s gown. 

“ Go,” he said, gently disengaging 
himself, — ‘‘go and get some food, and 
to-morrow 1 will find you a better 
home.” 

She was very hungry, and so she was 
docile, and willing to be taken any- 
where if she might find something to 
eat ; but before she went she clasped the 
hand of the priest passionately, kissed 
it, and left a tear upon it. 

The tear of the child acted like a 
charm on the heart of Fabien, for he 
said to himself, as he walked slowly 
toward the bishop’s palace, “ I believe 
I shall learn to love the wretched lit- 
tle thing.” 


PART SIXTH. 

HOW A PHILOSOPHER MAY DIE. 

The Count de Clermont was dying. 
For many days the servants had passed 
in and out, up and down the stairs, and 
through the long corridors of the cha- 
teau, with soft footsteps, grave faces, 
and compressed lips. All the outward 
semblances of soitow were observed, 
whether the heart suffered or not. Those 
who serve for gain seldom love, and the 


dozens of obsequious lackeys who bowed 
before the Count de Clermont were no 
exceptions to the great mass of hire- 
lings. 

The only real mourner, the only one 
among all that surrounded him who felt 
any sincere love for the profligate old 
Count, was his only child, a boy of 
twelve years, who sat day after day 
within sound of his father’s voice, 
watching with intense anxiety the face 
of the physician, who passed in and out, 
absorbed in his effort to prolong for a 
little time a life that had been of no 
benefit to mankind; for the highest 
aim of the dying man had been pleas- 
ure, and the only generous deeds he had 
done had been the heaping of thousands 
of favors upon himself. He suffered no 
pangs of remorse, no twinges of con- 
science for the past, no fears nor doubts 
for the future. His philosophy was 
simple, and easily defined. Life was 
given to man that he might enjoy it. 
He had fulfilled his duty, and therefore 
he had nothing with which to reproach 
himself. 

While speaking to his physician, who, 
because he expected a legacy, showed 
the tenderest sympathy, ho said, “ I am 
dying, it is true, but I have lived as 
long as one ought ; when the power of 
enjoyment dies, the body should die 
also. What use is there of spreading a 
feast before a man who has no appetite 
for it 1 When the ear is dull, the taste 
blunted, the eye dim, draw a curtain 
between the banquet and the automaton 
who is no longer a welcome guest. Life 
is day, and death is night. In the day 
we feast, we sing, we dance, and at night 
we sleep. In my youth I studied Vol- 
taire, and the light of his intellect illu- 
mined all the chambers of my mind. I 
laid out my future according to his 
teaching, and I have carefully followed 
my plan. ' I have let no opportunity for 
enjoyment pass unimproved. I have 
pressed all the sweetness from life. It 
has nothing more to give me ; therefore 
I am contented that it is finished.” 

The boy with the spiritual face, 
dreamy eyes, and thoughtful smile, 
sometimes heard fragments of those 
conversations, and wondered if it were 
true that life is day, and death is night, 
and eternity an unbroken sleep. Strange 


12 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


and vague dreams floated through his 
mind, which the remarks of his father 
to the physician sadly disturbed. 

The day had worn away in pain and 
distress to the dying Count, yet he 
affected not to feel that he was suffer- 
ing. A smile always hovered around 
his pallid lips, his hands were folded 
over the silken cover of his bed. There 
was no moaning, no restlessness, no 
complaining; he was determined his 
death should be an example of fortitude 
and resignation. During his life he 
had never had cause to murmur at the 
sharp strokes of ungrateful fortune ; a 
favorable breeze had carried him pros- 
perously across the broad ocean ; and he 
was now entering the last port with 
what he believed to be flying colors. 

“ I will show you how a philosopher 
should die,” he said more than once to 
his physician, as he raised his heavy 
eyes to a portrait of Voltaire that hung 
before his bed. He had yet to learn 
that the death of a philosopher and the 
death of a sinner may teach one and 
the same lesson. 

Darkness gathered in the great cham- 
bers and deserted corridors, and in the 
silent anteroom where the boy dreamer 
slept from weariness and watchings, with 
the open book that he no longer cared 
to read clasped in his hands. All was 
silent throughout the chateau, although 
a mighty conqueror, with • a shadowy 
retinue, was even then approaching. 

The door of the anteroom softly 
opened, so softly that it did not disturb 
the young sleeper, and Fabien entered 
the sick-room of the Count. The phy- 
sician, in spite of his anticipated legacy, 
overcome by weariness, nodded at his 
post, and did not awake until the priest 
touched his arm and said softly, “ I will 
watch while you take your dinner. Do 
not hurry, for I have some private busi- 
ness with M. le Comte.” 

The heavy eyes of the sick man 
lighted up a little, and the painful 
smile broadened and deepened, as the 
canon took his cold hand in what seemed 
a friendly clasp, but which in reality 
was as treacherous as tho kiss of 
Judas. 

Perhaps the intellect, illuminated by 
the near approach of death, understood 
more clearly than ever before ; for some- 


thing of the real character of the man 
who bent over him evidently impressed 
itself on the mind of the dying Count. 
He tried to fix his dim, wandering eyes 
on the face of Fabien. There was 
something of anxious scrutiny in their 
regard, and an inflection of doubt and 
uneasiness in his voice, when he said, 
“ Is all arranged with the bishop, and 
are you ready to enter upon your new 
duties 1 ” 

“ Yes,” replied the canon, “ all is 
arranged, and I am quite prepared to 
show you how deepty I appreciate the 
friendship and confidence of which you 
have given me so great a proof.” 

Again the Count’s eyes wandered to 
the face of the priest, and he said 
drowsily and at intervals, “ I cannot be 
mistaken, — I am never mistaken ; I 
can read the human heart — as one 
reads an open book. I have studied 
you carefully and closely, — when you 
were unconscious of it, — and I have 
found nothing to condemn. You are a 
scholar, — you are a philosopher, — you 
know how to live, — and knowing how 
to live teaches one how to die. My 
son will be instructed by a great mind, 
— one who understands the true phi- 
losophy of life. I am sure I have 
chosen well, — you have a strong will 
and a decided character, — you will cor- 
rect the feebleness and vacillation of 
his. I have confidence in you, — and I 
know you will never abuse it. You 
will be true to the trust I repose on 
you.” With the last words his voice 
gathered strength, and his eyes were 
filled with entreaty as he fixed them 
on the inscrutable face of his com- 
panion. 

Fabien clasped closer the hand that 
lay in his, and replied earnestly: “I 
will be true to the trust ; your wishes 
shall be obeyed to the letter, your con- 
fidence in me will make my duty the 
most sacred of my life. I will instruct 
him faithfully. I will strive to make 
him profound in knowledge, pure in 
heart, and strong in will and self-gov- 
ernment. I will hold up to him the 
lives of the great philosophers as a 
standard to which he must toil to at- 
tain. I will teach him to live worthily, 
both by example and precept. I speak 
with a single heart, an earnest inten- 


A CROWN PROM THE SPEAR. 


13 


tion. Rest in peace ! your son and 
heir shall be a most sacred trust.” 

Although the voice of the priest was 
gently modulated to that consoling 
evenness, that impressive calm, which in- 
dicates a serene and truthful nature, 
and although the clear eyes looked 
straight and steadily into the failing 
sight of the dying man, there was noth- 
ing in their gaze that reassured him. 
On the contrary, their expression seemed 
to torment him, for the thin hands 
moved restlessly, clutching at what 
they could not hold in their relaxing 
grasp, and his head turned uneasily on 
the pillow, while his eyes sought ever}^ 
part of the room with intense anxiety. 
He seemed like one who, believing 
himself on solid ground, finds it sud- 
denly giving away beneath his feet, and 
strives to clutch at impossibilities to 
save himself. His reason was sinking 
below his grasp, receding beyond his 
reach, and he was vainly trying to cling 
to it a little longer. And just at that 
moment, when he needed something 
substantial and sure to lean upon, one 
after another the foundations beneath 
him were falling away, and his struc- 
ture built on sand was floating a wreck 
toward the unexplored ocean of eternity. 
And with all this came an uncertainty, 
a bewilderment ; he had lost his way in 
the twilight, profound darkness was fast 
surrounding him, and he had neither 
compass or guiding star. He groped 
helplessly in his obscurity, but it was 
too late ; he could not find his path, his 
philosophy had blinded him. In his 
anguish he forgot to be a hero, he for- 
got to be composed and dignified, and, 
like any other suffering, dying mortal, 
he threw his arms wildly about, strug- 
gled to a sitting position, and cried out 
for the doctor. 

Fabien quietly laid him back on his 
pillow, took the restless hands firmly in 
his strong grasp, fixed his metallic eyes 
on the drawn and pallid face, and said 
in a hard and distinct tone, “It is true 
you are dying, you have but a few mo- 
ments to live, and there is something 
pressing upon your conscience like a 
heavy weight. It will relieve you to 
confess it ; I am ready to hear you, 
speak w’hile you have the time.” 

The hand, half palsied by death, 


groped blindly for the little silver bell 
that lay on the silken cover of the bed, 
while he gasped in a weak voice, “You 
have deceived me — it is her face that 
bends over me — my child — Claude — 
call the doctor. It is not too late — I 
will change my will — I will not leave 
him to you — I will not die with this 
doubt pressing on me. Will no one 
come — Claude — Claude ! ” 

Whenever the hand approached the 
bell, Fabien gently drew it back, while 
he tried to fix the wandering mind with 
his firm, steady gaze. He wished to be 
alone with the dying Count, for he be- 
lieved that in the last agony, in the su- 
preme moment, when the soul was 
wrenching itself free from its prison of 
clay, he might wring a secret from the 
suferer, — a secret he had striven to 
possess, and around which centred all his 
plans of ambition and future aggrandize- 
ment. Sooner than he expected the grim 
tyrant had seized his victim, and the 
priest knew the struggle would be brief. 
“ Is there nothing you wish to con- 
fess 1 ” he urged again. But he was too 
late. A mortal spasm convulsed the 
face of the dying. He sprang from his 
pillow, threw up his arms, and almost 
shrieking the name “ Genevieve,” fell 
back in the arms of Fabien, motion- 
less. 

The philosopher, the scholar, the 
courted leader of fashion, the gay, prof- 
ligate Count de Clermont, had finished 
a career that had afforded him much 
worldly pleasure and satisfaction, and 
left him no pangs of remorse or regret, 
for so he had boastingly said a few days 
before his death. He was dead; the 
secret of his wrongs to others, his fol- 
lies, his passions, were locked forever 
within his frozen heart, only to be re- 
vealed before that Judge who is most 
just as well as merciful. 


PART SEVENTH. 

THE YOUNG COUNT. 

Fabien laid the Count de Clermont 
back on his pillow, and stood looking 
at him with a strange expression on his 
face, a blending of triumph, defeat, and 


u 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


pity, if one can understand those di- 
verse passions being apparent at the 
same moment. For a long time he 
remained silent ; then he said, in a 
mournful voice, “ Genevieve, unhappy 
soul, thy name was the last upon his 
lips. 0, why did not death spare him 
a little longer ! A few moments more 
of mortal anguish would have wrung 
the secret from him ; but now it is too 
late, it is too late, I have failed in this. 
I counted upon it too surely ; death has 
defeated me ; now the study of my life 
will be to discover it by some other 
means.” 

Then he stooped lower and looked 
long and earnestly on the pallid face 
death was fast changing into settled 
calm. It must have been a wonderfully 
beautiful face in youth, for the features 
were perfect, and there was a certain 
nobility stamped upon the broad brow 
on which time had ploughed but light 
furrows. It seemed as though the 
priest’s gaze was riveted by a spell, so 
long did he remain motionless as a 
statue. 

All was silent ; profound darkness 
filled the great chamber, only broken 
by the feeble flame of the night-lamp, 
that fell over the silken curtains, the 
face of the dead, and the black i*obe of 
the priest. The wind came down the 
chimney with a piercing wail ; a gust 
rattled the casement, and startled Fa- 
bien from his absorbed contemplation ; 
but he only changed his position to fold 
his arms, and still gaze on the form 
before him, while he said in a low voice 
that was tremulous with some hidden 
emotion, Poor gentle soul, how she 
loved and suffered ! she was pierced with 
woes, but from the spear she gained 
the crown. Will she be glad, in Para- 
dise, to know her name was the last on 
his lips ^ I could almost forgive him 
if I could believe he had ever felt one 
pang of regret while living, ever dropped 
a tear at her unhappy fate, ever allowed 
a thought of her misery to disturb 
his riots and debauches. No, no, he 
crushed her mercilessly and left her 
to die without care, without pity. I 
would have gloated over his death- 
agony if it had been prolonged as long 
as her pain ; but no, it was brief. It 
was over too soon, the dawning of 


remorse was put out before he experi- 
enced its full power. He died as he 
lived, insensible. If there is a hell, 
it is for such as he. Thanks be to 
God, he cannot disturb her in Para- 
dise.” 

With these words, and without an- 
other look, he turned and went into 
the anteroom where the young Count 
still slumbered. Laying his hand on 
the boy’s head he said very gently, 
“ Claude.” 

The sleeper started up and rubbed 
his eyes confusedly as he turned toward 
the room of his father ; his first thought 
was for him. 

Fabien put his arm around him and 
drew him away from the door. 

“Is papa sleeping r’ he inquired as 
he dropped into his chair again, for he 
was overcome with weariness. 

“ Yes,” replied the canon, “ he sleeps, 
and he will never awaken. My boy, he 
is dead, and you must bear your loss 
with courage.” 

Claude was no hero, he was only a 
child, and he heard nothing but the 
words “he is dead.” They awakened 
him thoroughly and sharply enough. 
Springing from his chair, he fell on his 
knees, and, burying his face in the 
priest’s mantle, burst into loud weep- 
ing. 

Fabien made no effort to console him. 
“ He must weep,” he thought ; “ tears 
and sorrow are the inheritance his father 
has left him. ‘ The sins of his father 
shall be visited upon him.’ The spear 
he sharpened for another must pierce 
the soul of the innocent. Poor child ! 
one would scarce envy you your patri- 
mony.” 

After a few moments of passionate 
weeping, Claude looked wdth something 
like grieved surprise into the stony face 
that bent over him ; but seeing neither 
pity nor tenderness there, he turned, be- 
wildered and affrighted, toward the room 
where his father lay. 

The canon took him by the arm and 
said coldly, “ You have no one there. 
Leave the dead and turn to the living. 
Life is before you, and you have noth- 
ing to do with death.” 

“ 0 my father ! ” sobbed the boy as 
the priest led him from the room, now 
fast filling with the excited servants. 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


15 


BOOK SECOKD. 


CHATEAU DE CLEEMONT. 


PART FIRST. 

FABIEN, THE ARCHDEACON. 

Gentle reader, — for all readers are 
gentle, except critics, and it is fair to 
presume they would be, if their profes- 
sional reputation did not require them 
to be just, — is it allowed to us devour- 
ers of time and paper to swallow ten 
long years at one draught 1 — ten long 
yearj during which kingdoms are lost 
and won ; nations beaten down in the 
dust ; republics created, tried, and 
disproved ; governments overthrown ; 
principalities crushed; new doctrines 
promulgated and explored ; millions 
born, millions wedded, and millions 
buried ; tragedies without number ; 
woes repeated in every form ; joys 
newly tasted and become distasteful ; 
the birth, the growth, the death of 
love ; friendship betrayed, trust de- 
ceived, and hope disaj^pointed. But as 
these events during this time have no im- 
mediate connection with our story, here 
they can have no interest for the reader ; 
therefore we will let them slip quietly into 
the river of time, and leave them to float 
away with other lost years. 

Methinks you, sweet maiden, with 
soft eyes and smiling lips, who read a 
novel as you smell a rose, crushing it 
in your slender fingers and throwing it 
away after you have extracted all the 
sweetness, will bless the author who 
leaves out of his books all the dry-as- 
dust years. And you, weary matron 
and cankered man of care, who take up 
a romance as a respite from daily duty 
and profound thought, would ^ find little 
pleasure in the uninteresting details of 
a boy’s growing and a priest’s schem- 
ing. Therefore we will say to the dead 
years, rest in peace ! and pray to be 
allowed to present our dramatis personce 
under the most favorable auspices. 

The private study in the Chateau de 
Clermont, where Fabien, now the Arch- 


deacon, spent the greater part of his 
time, was a study nominally and actu- 
ally, for a more bizarre combination was 
never grouped together within four 
walls. Russet Flanders leather hung 
from the ceiling to the floor, covered 
with wickedly quaint designs embossed 
in gold ; processions of dancing satyrs ; 
leering fauns, and voluptuous nymphs ; 
grinning fiends torturing weeping crea- 
tures ; demons twisting serpent-like tails 
around monsters half human and half 
beast ; withered hags with diabolical 
faces, pointing lean fingers at struggling 
souls being drawn into dark chasms by 
long-nailed imps. All the horrors of 
Orgagna’s Last Judgment, mingled with 
the dissolute grace of the Pompeian 
frescos, were portrayed on these lofty 
walls. In one corner stood a gigantic 
figure clad in armor which may havo 
been worn by that Robert Comte do 
Clermont who received a blow in his 
brains, as the French historian graphi- 
cally has it, at a tournament given by 
his brother, Philip III. ; and as the same 
historian adds that the Comte Robert 
was altogether handsome and of an as- 
tonishing height, the remarkable size of 
the armor goes to prove the tradition. 
However, no joyous young face now 
smiled from its iron casement ; only a 
grinning skull represented the head that 
once had supported the plumed helmet. 
Between pedestals upholding, one tho 
figure of the Madonna, and the other 
a crowned Bacchus, stood a curious old 
cabinet, covered with hieroglyphics, and 
filled with stuffed serpents, dried bats, 
and crumbling bones which must have 
belonged to an order of creation long 
since extinct. Over the mantel-piece 
hung a Titian ; doubtless the great mas- 
ter had designed it for a Venus, but, to 
please some virtuous ecclesiastic, had 
changed it to a Magdalen. There was 
neither penitence nor sorrow in the 
sensual face that smiled from the glow- 
ing canvas ; neither did the scanty and 


16 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


transparent drapeiy conceal one line of 
the voluptuous form. If it was a Mag- 
dalen, it was the sinner, not the peni- 
tent. Above the frame were crossed 
several formidable-looking sabres and 
daggers, which served for a background 
to a delicate Toledo sword with an ex- 
quisitely engraved hilt. A pair of an- 
tique bronze urns ornamented each end 
of the mantel-piece, and in the centre a 
Louis XIV. clock marked the hour. On 
a heavy ebony table, with elaborately 
carved feet, stood a brass tripod, with a 
bronze cat perched gravely on its edge. 
A small crucible containing a greenish 
liquid sat on the extinguished embers. 
A globe, hour-glass, square, and com- 
passes, with many geometrical instru- 
ments, lay carelessly around, intermixed 
with half-open rolls of yellow parch- 
ment covered with cabalistic characters, 
ancient missals, and old books with 
worm-eaten covers. Before a Venetian 
mirror, on an altar of verde antique mar- 
ble, was a terra-cotta statue of our Sa- 
viour, by Lucca della Robbia. The 
dying Christ was fearfully distorted, 
and the disciples who surrounded him 
looked like brigands. An ancient fire- 
place, setting forth in bas-relief the tri- 
umphs of Jupiter, beginning with the 
not very chaste story of Danae, con- 
tained some smouldering logs, upheld 
by irons in the form of centaurs clasp- 
ing their hands above their shaggy 
heads. Before this fire, and near the 
table, in a high-backed carved chair 
which a king of France might have 
liked, sat Fabien, handsome, elegant, 
composed, and scrupulously neat in his 
dress. His small polished shoes with 
silver buckles rested on a rich Persian 
rug, over which fell his crimson corded 
robe. The narrow linen band that en- 
circled his throat, and the cufis that 
feU over his hands, were of immaculate 
purity. The rings of his glossy hair 
curled over the edge of his small purple 
cap and around his white forehead ; and 
his cleanly shaven face, clear eyes, and 
firm mouth seemed in perfect harmony 
with every detail of his dress. Looking 
at him as he sat there, some would have 
said, He is a successful man ” ; more, 

“ He is a good man ” ; and others, “ He 
is a great man.” The air of refinement 
about him denoted worldly prosperity, 


and there was nothing in the placid 
brow, fine mouth, and earnest eyes that 
betokened a weird nature, an undue 
ambition, a faithlessness and hypocrisy 
of the deepest dye. So far his appear- 
ance deceived one ; but there was noth- 
ing spurious in the stamp that profound 
thought, constant study, and careful 
culture had impressed upon his face. 
He was a prosperous man. He had suc- 
ceeded beyond even his most ardent 
expectations. He was no longer the 
poor scholar of the college of St. Vin- 
cent, the young and dreamy philosopher 
who went hungry that he might have 
books, and slept cold that he might not 
sleep much ; who knew eveiything that 
science could teach, and yet was very 
ignorant of the refinements of life. 
Now he was %)ar excellence above most 
of those who had despised him in his 
humble days. At thirty-five he was a 
high dignitary of the Church, with souls 
in his care, austere, grave, serious, and 
imposing. The children of the choir, 
the acolytes, the clerks, the sacristans, 
the poor worshippers, all reverenced 
him when he passed slowly across the 
choir of Notre Dame, majestic, pensive, 
and absorbed, his eyes cast down, his 
arms folded, and his face composed to a 
becoming stolidity. Yet he had not ar- 
rived at the supreme end, the great 
goal to which he aspired. Slowly one ob- 
stacle after another had been removed. 
As he approached, the mountains had 
levelled before him, dark and uncertain 
paths became clear and straight. Cir- 
cumstances seemed to combine to make 
him great. Responsible ofiices were 
thrust upon him. Important trusts 
were confided to his care. The Church 
looked upon him as her most zealous 
disciple and brightest light. Philoso- 
phers and scholars did not disdain to 
defer their opinion to his. All classes 
came to him for advice and counsel. He 
was gentle, he was patient and gener- 
ous, giving freely of what was not his 
own, thereby teaching his young pupil 
practically the beauty of charity. What 
more could this man desire than the 
honor, the esteem, the confidence of his 
fellow-men 1 Much more; for with all 
these he was favored, yet he was un- 
satisfied. A dark passion filled his soul, 
which he concealed beneath a mantle 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


17 


of hypocrisy ; but day and night, alone 
or with the world, silently he brooded, 
planned, and schemed for the accom- 
plishment of one object. 


PART SECOND. 

A COUNT, A LILY, AND A ROSE. 

Claude de Clermont was a strange 
youth, quiet, gentle, thoughtful. Un- 
like most rich young nobles of his age, 
he loved to be alone with his books and 
nature. A dreamy sadness softened his 
dark eyes, and stamped his face with an 
indescribable charm. When Jie spoke, 
his voice was soft and low; when he 
smiled, his smile was like a child’s ; and 
his manners were refined and caressing, 
yet a little shy and reserved. He sel- 
dom opened his heart to Fabien, seem- 
ing to live a life apart from his tutor, 
who, it is true, had never encouraged 
any confidences. He was a hard student, 
and spent the greater part of his time 
with his books, they were his favorite 
companions. He found in them society 
that never disappointed him ; they did 
not flatter him to his face and censure 
him when he had turned away, they 
poured out their rich treasures freeljq and 
he might gather up all he wished with- 
out being avaricious, or he might scatter 
them without being spendthrift ; they 
were friends that were plastic in his 
hands to do with as he wished ; he 
loved them, and he rarely ever neglected 
them. 

Fabien, true to his promise to the dy- 
ing Count, had made a scholar of the boy. 
He had given him the example of an 
upright, honorable life. He had taught 
him the sublime doctrines of the ancient 
philosophers ; he had not interfered 
with his religious impressions ; he had 
left him free to choose for his master 
Christ or Voltaire, whichever he pre- 
ferred, without advice or counsel ; he 
had not endeavored to bias his mind 
toward any one doctrine or profession. 
He had obeyed the old Count’s com- 
mands literally ; he had taught the boy 
science and philosophy, but he had 
taken no pains to fashion his soul to 
noble and holy desires. There was fer- 
2 


tile soil ready to receive the seed, but 
he had sown nothing. The boy’s vague 
fancies and confused thoughts had 
fairly struggled to refine themselves 
into something like pure gold, but 
there was too much of foreign matter 
picked up from desultory reading that 
would not unite wdth a naturally good 
and noble nature. Sometimes he longed 
to go to his tutor, open his heart to 
him, and tell him all his doubts and 
desires, but there was something forbid- 
ding in the manner of the priest that 
kept the boy at a distance. So he 
studied, read, and dreamed away his 
days in the pleasant seclusion of Cler- 
mont, wondering what the world was 
like ; longing for, and yet shrinking 
from, the time when he might be al- 
lowed to enter the field and engage in 
the conflict for himself. 

Two young girls with arms int wined 
and heads pressed together in confiden- 
tial discourse walked slowly down a 
garden path, followed by an elderly 
woman, who was knitting and humming, 
as she went, an old tune of Provence. 
The Lily and the Rose, as they were 
named by the people for miles around, 
did not feel the sharp-eyed old woman 
to be any restraint, for they repeated 
their most important secrets, and 
laughed over their girlish pranks, as 
though there was nothing but the birds 
and flowers to listen to them. 

The Lily was Celeste Monthelon, a 
tall, graceful, white lily, with soft, gen- 
tle ways, downcast eyes, and a sweet 
face, on which were stamped peace and 
purity. 

The Rose was Aimee, the convict’s 
child. She was not a white rose, nor a 
red rose of Provins, but a rose de the, 
velvety, creamy, with passionate color 
at the heart, wild fragrance, and fatal 
grace. At six, she was an ugly, weird 
little creature ; at sixteen, she was a 
rose. The body had gi'owii up to the 
disproportioned head, which would now 
seem small, only for its crown of blue- 
black hair, breaking into a thousand 
ripples of light. There w\as something 
startling in the expression of her eyes 
when they looked at one, which was 
seldom, for they were like nothing but 
the eyes of a tiger ; in color reddish- 


18 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


brown, with large pupils that one would 
have sworn were a little oblong, yet, 
veiled as the}^ were by the thickest and 
darkest of lashes, they appeared soft 
and pensive ; only when they flashed a 
glance straight at one, then their fire 
and passion made the heart shiver. 
Her eyebrows turned down a little at 
the nose, and up a little at the temples, 
which gave to the face a maliciously 
mischievous expression, that the round- 
ness and beauty of the cheek, perfect 
nose, mouth, and chin fully redeemed. 
Her nature was a combination of good 
and evil; generous, passionate, loving 
to desperation those she loved, and 
hating bitterly, vindictively, revenge- 
fully those she hated. And she was 
ambitious; she wished to be a lady, a 
great lady ; she Avished to see unnum- 
bered adorers at her feet. She declared 
many times, in confidence to Celeste, 
that her beauty should win her a title. 
She hated the quiet and retirement of 
Clermont, and desired to see the great 
world of Paris. She would prefer a 
life of excitement and adventure, in 
which she must play the first part. At 
other times, she hated everything, and 
declared she would enter a convent, 
become a hermit, a pilgrim, or a sister 
of charity. Then she wished to be a 
man, that she might lead the life of a 
soldier, and fight and die for her coun- 
try. She talked well and eloquently, 
for a girl, of heroism and self-immola- 
tion ; yet declared in the same breath 
that she was capable of neither. She 
was torn to pieces by contending emo- 
tions ; subject to fits of melancholy 
depression, sudden abandonment to 
tears, furious and almost insane bursts 
of passion, reckless and nois}’’ mirth, 
thoughtfulness and reserve, followed by 
an expansiveness, Avinning and gra- 
cious. She Avas moody, uncertain as 
the wind, unstable as water; yet she 
exercised a wonderful fascination, an 
irresistible influence, over those around 
her. Fabien A\^as her slave. In no 
other hands but hers was he plastic ; 
and she moulded him to her will with 
a despotism as remarkable as it Avas 
powerful. 

After the death of the Count de Cler- 
mont, in accordance Avith his wishes the 
canon fixed his residence permanently 


at the chateau, bringing Aimeo Avfith 
him ; he placed her under the chai-gc of 
the housekeeper, representing her to bo 
the orphan of a dear friend to whom ho 
w^as deeply indebted for man}- favors in 
former days. This explanation allayed 
Avhatever suspicion the gossips of the 
household may haA^e had, and estab- 
lished the little girl on a sort of level 
Avith the young Count. She had grown 
up with him as a sister, they had stud- 
ied and played together, and she had 
been more than once a mediator be- 
tween the boy and his stern tutor. 
The tear she left on the hand of Fabien 
the day he led her out from the shadoAV 
of Notre Dame had indeed Avorked its 
charm, for she w^as the only thing in 
the wide wwld he loved, and he A\mr- 
shipped this little waif thrown upon his 
mercy Avith all the strength and inten- 
sity of his strange nature. 

The Lily, Celeste Monthelon, w^as also 
Fabien’s Avard. Her father was a rich 
button-manufacturer, who, during the 
life of the former Count de Clermont, had 
purchased the adjoining estate. But the 
old aristocrat had never condescended 
to notice his plebeian neighbor, whose 
beautiful grounds were only separated 
from his by a row of poplars and a low^ 
rustic fence. HoweA^er, the old Count 
did not live long after ; and wdien Fabien 
became master of Clermont, which he 
wvas virtually, he made the kindest and 
most winning advances to the honest 
man, Avho gladly met him half-Avay. In 
this manner an intimate friendship was 
soon established between the tA\^o fami- 
lies. Madame Monthelon Awas an inva- 
lid, suffering from an incurable disease, 
when Fabien first made his flattering 
and disinterested overtures to the good 
manufacturer, and during all the years 
that follow^ed she never left her room, 
or Avas seen in the society of her hus- 
band and little girl, who wuth the ser- 
vants comprised the wdiole family of M. 
Monthelon. When Celeste was a little 
more than twelve years of age, her fa- 
ther too became a confirmed invalid. 
From one of the AvindoAvs of the Cha- 
teau de Clermont Fabjen could over- 
look the grounds of Monthelon ; there 
he often watched the feeble man tot- 
teriug about, leaning on the shoulder of 
his little daughter, Avho was his insepar- 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


19 


able companion, and speculated on the 
chances of being her guardian when her 
natural protector should be removed by 
death. With this intention he was not 
long in winning the entire confidence of 
the invalid, who was deceived into be- 
lieving all the priest’s attention and 
kindness to be but disinterested friend- 
ship. 

Shortly before his death, during a 
conversation with his daughter respect- 
ing her future, M. Monthelon said, 
“ The canon is a good man, and I have 
a sincere affection for him. I know of 
no one to whom I can intrust thee and 
thy fortune with equal satisfaction and 
confidence.” And Celeste, who always 
complied with her father’s wishes, found 
nothing to object to in such an arrange- 
ment ; for she too liked and trusted the 
grave and handsome priest, who always 
spoke to her as one would to a child, 
with gentle and caressing speech. 

After her father’s death Celeste spent 
much of her time at the Chateau de 
Clermont with Aimee and the young 
Count. The girls read, walked, and gos- 
siped together, followed and watched 
by the sharp-eyed Fanchette, who was 
foster-mother, governess, and humble 
companion to Celeste. This kind-hearted 
woman of Provence had taken her a 
baby from her feeble mother’s arms, 
and bestowed upon her all the affection 
and care of the fondest heart. It was 
the only maternal love she had ever 
known, for poor Madame Monthelon, 
feeble in mind as well as in body, 
scarcely ever saw her child. Fanchette 
loved the girl most tenderly; she hu- 
mored her, petted her, and sang to her 
the sweet airs of Provence, while she 
guarded her carefully. Yet sharp-eyed 
and quick-witted as she was, she could 
not discover under the robe of the 
priest the wolf who was to devour her 
iamb, for she believed in Fabien as one 
believes in the God he worships. 

The Lily and the Rose, as they were 
called by all the servants and all the 
people, grew and leaned toward each 
other lovingly for a time, until the hot 
breath of, the sun wooed from the Rose 
the pure embraces of the Lily, then 
Aimee hated Cfdeste with all the 
strength of her nature. This passion 
was born suddenly. It started into life 


one day when the young Count, meeting 
them in their walk, lingered by the side 
of Celeste and looked into her soft eyes 
with unmistakable love. 


PART THIRD. 

A FACE AT A WINDOW. 

There were merriment and revelry in 
the great sa/on at the Chateau de Cler- 
mont. Sounds of fresh, girlish voices, 
laughing with unaffected enjoyment, 
mingled with the soft tones of a piano, 
upon which some one was playing a 
dreamy waltz. The wax candles were 
lit in the brackets on the wall and 
in the Venetian glass chandeliers sus- 
pended from the ceiling. Flowers were 
everywhere twisted in garlands around 
the pictures, and twined about the neck 
and dainty limbs of the Venus that 
gleamed from a background of crimson 
tapestry. Every urn and every niche 
was filled with the fragrant beauties, un- 
til the room seemed a bower of roses. 

It was Claude’s birthday, and the 
girls were celebrating it in a merry, in- 
nocent fashion. They had decorated 
the salon secretly, and had surprised 
Claude by covering his eyes and lead- 
ing him within the door. When the 
brilliantly lighted, flower-bedecked room 
fell upon his sight, he expressed his as- 
tonishment and pleasure with more 
than usual demonstrativeness, by seiz- 
ing the hand of Celeste and kissing it 
heartil^q at which the girl blushed, Fan- 
chette frowned, and Aimee burst into a 
ringing laugh. 

“Now,” said Aim^e with vivacity, 
after they had sufficiently admired the 
decorations and each other’s dresses, — 
“now we will have a ball. Claude 
shall play a bewitching waltz while we 
dance. Not you, Madame Fanchette,” 
pushing the woman brusquely into a 
chair. “ Sit there, with your everlast- 
ing knitting and watch our graceful evo- 
lutions. Come, my Lily, to your Rose, 
but beware of her thorns. They are 
long and sharp, and they may pierce 
your tender whiteness.” 

Throwing her arm around the slender 
waist of Celeste with a savage clasp, as 


20 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


though she would devour her, she 
drew her into the centre of the room, 
and began whirling around with the 
most graceful abandon. Celeste, under- 
standing the moods of her friend, re- 
signed herself to her rough embrace, 
and entered' into the spirit of the dance 
with the utmost enjoyment. Claude 
played as though he were inspired 
with the soul of mirth, and Fanchette 
dropped her knitting, her grave features 
relaxing into something like a smile, as 
she watched the charming girls, their 
lovely faces wreathed with smiles, their 
hair floating in careless confusion, their 
gauzy white dresses enveloping them in 
a cloud, until one could scarcely tell 
which was the lily and which was the 
rose. 

At last Celeste, completely overcome 
by her rapid whirl, broke away from her 
companion and sank into a chair. Aimee 
seemed possessed with the spirit of 
Terpsichore. Her little feet scarcely 
touched the Persian carpet as she 
turned and floated lightly, making the 
largest circuit of the room. Her beau- 
tiful arms clasped over her head, her 
graceful figure displaying every line of 
beauty, her eyes aflame, and her lips 
parted in a dazzling smile, she seemed 
a supernatural being, an angel, a fairy, 
a nymph, a Bacchante, anything but a 
human being. Suddenly stopping in 
her mad evolutions and uttering a little 
scream, she sprang away from a large 
window at the lower end of the salon, 
that opened on a terrace, and, seizing 
Claude by the arm, she cried, “ Look, 
do you see that face at the window, 
that horrid, ghastly face % ” 

Claude started up. Fanchette dropped 
lier knitting, and Celeste retreated into 
a farther corner. 

“ I see nothing,” said Claude, direct- 
ing his glance toward the window, — I 
see nothing. Your dance has turned 
your brain. It was an optical illusion.” 

“ You see nothing. Stupid ! How 
should you see anything when there is 
nothing to see nowl It was a face, I 
tell you, and the face of a thief. Do 
you' suppose he will stand there and let 
us all look at him 1 ” 

“ Perhaps it was Father Fabien,” sug- 
gested Celeste, timidly. 

“Father Fabien, — nonsense! I tell 


you it was a horrid face, a ghastly face, 
with great hungry eyes that seemed de- 
vouring me,” she said vehemently. 

Claude only laughed, and it seemed 
to irritate her beyond description. 

“ You coward ! ” she cried, “ you 
don’t believe it because you are fright- 
ened. I tell you it was a thief I am 
not afraid. I will see.” And straight- 
ening herself like a young grenadier, 
while she shook her small fist signifi- 
cantly, she marched direct to the win- 
dow. Fanchette followed her, and 
Claude improved the opportunity to kiss 
again the hand of Celeste. 

Aim6e flung open the window bravely, 
and stepped out on the terrace. It 
was dark, and Fanchette drew back 
afmid. 

“ Here he is,” she said, savagely press- 
ing her underlip with her -white teeth, 
as she went tow^ard a miserable-looking 
creature huddled against the wall wdth 
his face buried in his hands. 
heureux ! What are you doing here? 
Why have you frightened . us, and inter- 
rupted our pleasure % ” 

The voice that addressed the poor 
creature was so stern and harsh, so un- 
like the voice of a girl, that he started, 
but did not raise his head, nor reply ; 
only, bending lower, he clasped timidly 
the hem of her white dress, and pressed 
it to his lips. 

She drew her dress a-way from his 
grasp with a sharp stroke of her hand, 
saying, “Are you a thief, or are you 
mad ? ” Then turning toward the win- 
dow, she cried in a loud, clear voice, 
“ Claude, Claude 1 ” 

When Claude reached her side the 
man was gone ; and if it had not been 
for the glimpse he had of a dark figure 
disappearing in the shrubbery below, he 
would have declared again that the 
dance had turned her brain, and she 
was laboring under a delusion. As it 
-was, he looked a little gi’ave when he en- 
tered the room. 

Celeste was trembling with fear be- 
hind Fanchette, and to her eager, “ Who 
was it ? ” he replied ; “ I don’t kno-w, but 
1 think it was most likely one of the 
peasants who, in crossing the park, -^’as 
attracted by the light and music, and 
w^as curious to know what -w^as going on 
within.” 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


21 


Aimee entered with Claude, but she 
said not a word. Dropping into a chair, 
she remained with her arms folded and 
her e^’es fixed on a certain pattern in 
the carpet,* lost in profound thought. 
Her face was stern and pale ; all the 
light and laughter had passed away 
from it, and now she looked more like a 
young Nemesis than a fairy or a nymph. 


PART FOURTH. 

I CAN MAKE HIM USEFUL. 

When Aimee had cried “ Claude, 
Claude,” the vagrant had started to his 
feet and dashed down the terrace, never 
pausing to look behind him until he 
reached the thickest shrubbery in a 
part of the park remote from the cha- 
teau. There he threw himself prostrate 
on the ground, and, extending his arms, 
clutched with convulsive grasp the 
dried leaves and moss, digging his long 
fingers deep into the earth, and moan- 
ing and writhing with suppressed agony. 
Then he suddenly started to his feet, 
and, clinching his hand, shook it 
defiantly at the star-lit heavens, crying 
in sharp tones of grief and incredulity, 
“ Thou art God, and thou sittest in the 
heavens and metest out justice to the 
children of men '1 With what irony 
thou callest thyself just ! Is it just to 
implant within our hearts natural affec- 
tion, to be returned with scorn and hate 1 
Is it just to make us worms, and then 
crush us in the dust 'I In thy supreme 
powder, hast thou no pity for the weak- 
ness of the creature thou hast created 
and called good 1 Where is thy mercy 
when thou turnest a deaf ear to those 
who cry unto thee 1 Thou art unjust ! 
and the strongest passion thou hast 
implanted in the heart of humanity is 
injustice. I prayed to thee, I trusted 
thee ; and I believed if I could but see 
her face again, thou wouldst reveal to 
her the infinite love of my heart. I 
have seep her. Again she has treated 
me with scorn, and driven me from her. 
There is no truth in the instincts of 
nature. Blood is not thicker than wa- 
ter. I have nothing more to live for, 
to hope for, to struggle for. Outcast, 


branded, a fugitive, hunted like a wild 
beast, every man’s hand is against me. 
Until now I havewTonged none, neither 
have I desired to ; but from this mo- 
ment the world is my adversary. I 
will regard all humanity as one regards 
a personal enemy. Indiscriminately I 
will avenge on all my own sufferings. 
Henceforth there shall be neither i^ity, 
truth, nor love in my heart. I hate 
mankind, and I will prove it.” 

“ My friend, my brother,” interrupted 
a stern, sad voice, “these are bitter 
words to fall from the lips of a feeble 
mortal ; these are fearful words of 
defiance. What great wrong hath so 
embittered thee against thy fellow- 
creatures 'I ” 

The unfortunate turned, and saw be- 
fore him, in the dim light, the tall, 
black-robed form of a priest. It was 
Fabien, who was taking one of his noc- 
turnal rambles. Something had oc- 
curred to disturb him during the day, 
and rapid walking in this lonely spot 
was the escape-valve that freed his pent- 
up passions. He had been attracted a 
little from his path by the tragic and 
somewhat startling tones of the wretch 
who defied God. From his j^oiith he 
had been accustomed to mysterious and 
solemn scenes, and besides the indomita- 
ble courage in his character was stim- 
ulated and excited by the contact of 
what might he danger; so he turned 
aside toward the spot from whence 
came the voice that uttered undistin- 
guishable words, thinking, “ It is prob- 
ably some fanatic who beats the air 
and defies the immovable heavens, or 
a lunatic poet addressing a sonnet to 
the moon. At all events, I will know 
who it is.” 

When he came face to face with the 
man, and had clearly traced the outline 
of form and features, so indistinct in 
the feeble light, he seemed more startled 
than a brave man should have been, 
and the calm words he began to ad- 
dress to the stranger ended in an excla- 
mation of surprise. 

For more than an hour the Arch- 
deacon and the unfortunate remained 
in an earnest conversation, during which 
the poor vagrant wept, implored, and 
promised, while Fabien calmed, urged, 
and assured; then he left him, and 


22 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


walked slowly back to the chateau, 
saying now and then to himself, “ It is 
most fortunate for me. I can make 
him useful, and no one will ever dis- 
cover him in that disguise.” 

The lights were extinguished in the 
salon. Celeste had gone home, accom- 
panied by Fanchette and Claude, who 
both declared it was not safe for two 
women to walk alone across the park 
at that hour, and after such an adven- 
ture. 

Fabien had scarcely entered his study 
'v/hen some one tapped at the door, and, 
without waiting for a reply, threw it 
open impatiently, and entered brusque- 
ly. It was Aimee. Her face was very 
pale, her teeth firmly set together, and 
her eyes on fire. These were portentous 
signs, and Fabien understood them. 

“ What is it, ma cherie ? ” he inquired, 
soothingly, as he drew her to his 
side. 

She did not notice his kind speech 
nor his gentle caress, but, disengaging 
herself from his encircling arm, with a 
gesture of impatience she commenced 
walking the floor rapidly. 

The priest said nothing, took up a 
book, and, apparently began to read ; 
but all the while his gaze was fixed on 
the restless movements of the young 
girl. Suddenly she stopped before him, 
and levelling her eyes steadily to his 
sphinx-like face, said, “ Have you been 
in the park to-night h ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Did you see any one, that is, any 
stranger % ” 

“ No.” 

“Did you come up the linden ave- 
nue to the chateau ? ” w 

“Yes.” 

“ And you saw no one 1 ” 

“ I saw no one ; but why do you 
ask these questions “I whom do you 
think I have seenl” 

“ The same person I have seen,” she 
replied, with a shiver. “We were dan- 
cing in the salon, when suddenly I saw 
a face, a horrid white face, pressed 
against the glass of the north window. 
I screamed, and he disappeared.” 

“ My child,” said Fabien, firmly, “ it 
was nothing but your imagination.” 

“ My imagination ! ” she cried, draw- 
ing up her mouth with scorn. “ Does 


imagination supply people to talk with 
you, and to clasp and kiss your clothes ] 
I tell you I saw and spoke to this man. 
xVnd I have seen his face before, where 
and when I cannot tell ; but I have 
seen it, and it brought back some 
memory like a horrid nightmare.” 

“ It was probably some half-insane 
creature,” said the priest, gently. “ It 
is late ; go to bed, my child, and think 
no more of it.” 

“ I cannot help thinking ; the face 
and the voice haunt me, and fill me 
with fear.” 

She glanced around the room, and for 
the first time the weird objects seemed 
to trouble her, for she said, “ How can 
you live in this gloomy place h I should 
go mad to look always at that grinning 
skull.” 

“My child,” said Fabien, solemnl}’', 
“ we are all grinning skulls ; and later 
we too shall become objects of horror 
and disgust to our survivors. It is 
well to think of that, and then we 
shall have no such childish aversion 
to things the most harmless and sim- 
ple.” 

“ That is very well for a sermon,” she 
returned, with a mocking laugh ; “ but 
now confess, would you not rather look 
at the lovely Magdalen clothed with 
flesh, than these dry bones 1 ” 

Mechante he replied, flushing 
slightly. “ I would rather look at 
you.” 

Aimee darted a withering glance to- 
ward him, and, without replying, hastily 
left the room. 


PART FIFTH. 

A VAGRANT CHANGED TO A PRIEST. 

The dressing-room and bedroom of 
Fabien opened out of his study, and 
there he retired after Aimee left him. 
These chambers were more luxurious 
than austere men of the Church usually 
indulge in. Before a bright wood-fire 
stood a large crimson arm-chair, and 
near it a table, on which were arranged 
several decanters of choice wines, a 
Turkish pipe, and a tray of cigars, 
the odor of which would have rejoiced 
the olfactories of the most fastidious 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


23 


smoker. Fabien doffed his priest’s 
dress, and donned a purple robe de 
chamhre ; then pouring out a glass of 
sparkling Lachryma Christi and light- 
ing a cigar he threw himself back in his 
comfortable easy-chair like one prepared 
for a fireside re very. 

What his thoughts were we certainly 
cannot tell, but we can judge they were 
rather troublesome by the furious clouds 
of smoke he puffed out, and the restless 
way in which he moved his feet, threat- 
ening to dislocate the slender legs of 
the ottoman on which they rested. He 
glanced at his watch ; it was midnight, 
and he grew silent and attentive to the 
slightest sound. An owl from a neigh- 
boring tree told that night was the 
time for dark deeds ; and a watch-dog 
chained at the entrance of the chateau 
barked and whined as though he desired 
to break his fastenings and rush upon 
some nocturnal prowler. 

Presently there was a light tap at 
" the window, so light that it seemed but 
the rustle of a dry leaf whirled by the 
wind. Fabien started up briskly, and, 
raising the curtain, peered out ; then he 
softly undid the fastenings of the case- 
ment, and a man stepped from the 
darkness of the terrace into the room. 
He glanced around eagerly. The warmth 
and light seemed to overcome him, for 
he pressed his hands over his eyes and 
sank into a chair with a moan. 

The Archdeacon looked at him with 
pity ; then pouring out a glass of wine 
he gave it to him, saying, “ Drink this 
and you will be better.” 

“It is not thirst, monseigneur, it is 
hunger,” he said as he took the glass 
with a trembling hand. 

Fabien opened a closet, and took 
from it a loaf of bread and some fro- 
mage de Brie, which he placed before the 
unfortunate, who devoured them raven- 
ously, gathering up with his thin fingers 
every crumb. When he had finished 
he looked up like a hungry dog who 
has only half appeased his appetite. 

The priest understood the expression, 
and smiled compassionately as he said, 
“ That will do for to-night, I have noth- 
ing more, but to-morrow you shall eat 
your fill.” 

“ Thank you,” replied the man with a 
look of gratitude and relief. “ It has 


been so long since I had enough to 
eat.” 

“Poor soul!” said Fabien, “you 
shall not go hungry again while I live. 
Now for the transformation. Come with 
me.” And he opened softly the door of 
his dressing-room. 

Taking from a wardrobe a suit of 
plain clothes that he had worn in his 
humbler days, he gave them to the man, 
and, laying before him all the articles 
necessary for a toilet, said, “ Make 
yourself decent as quickly as possible. 
Shave your beard, and cut your hair, 
and you will not recognize yourself. 
These rags must be concealed for the 
present, and afterwards destroyed,” 
pointing to the tattered garments that 
the man was rapidly divesting himself 
of. 

Half an hour later Fabien looked up 
and the unfortunate stood before him 
transformed into a priest. A perfect 
specimen of the stern ascetic type, — an 
emaciated face, great hollow eyes, and 
a narrow fringe of clipped gray hair. 

“ That is well,” said the Archdeacon 
with satisfaction ; “ the disguise is com- 
plete ; your mother, if she could see 
you, would not recognize you. You may 
sleep here for the remainder of the 
night,” indicating a sofa in his dressing- 
room, “ but with the early dawn you 
must slip away as you entered, and re- 
member to present yourself to-morrow 
at ten o’clock and ask for me, giving 
your name as Pere Benoit of the college 
of St. Vincent. 

The new-made priest stood before his 
benefactor in a humble attitude, his 
head bent and his hands clasped tightly. 
He had said nothing, for various and 
powerful emotions were struggling into 
expression, and his heart was too full to 
find utterance suddenly. At length, 
when the Archdeacon was turning to 
leave him, he seized his hand, and, cov- 
ering it with tears and kisses, cried, 
“ You have saved me ; henceforth my 
life is yours to use as you wish. I am 
your slave, do with me as you will.” 

Fabien drew away his hand as if the 
tears burned him, and said kindly but 
curtly, “ Words are useless, your deeds 
will best show your gratitude ; you can 
serve me, and you are willing, that is 
all I desire.” 


24 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


PART SIXTH. 

YOU MUST DECIDE FOR YOURSELF. 

When Claude started to walk across 
the park with Celeste and Fanchette, 
he had decided to put his fate to the 
test by asking the Lily to become his 
wife. He loved her, he had loved her 
for two years, and he intended to make 
her Countess of Clermont. It had been 
his decision from the first, but for some 
reason, although they saw each other 
often, the opportunity to declare his 
love had never occurred ; he was sure 
Celeste returned his affection, and in 
the security of this conviction he had 
remained silent. Now he felt the time 
to speak had arrived, and he was deter- 
mined to delay no longer. 

It was a moonless night, but the 
air was keen and clear, and the Milky 
Way made a luminous path across the 
wilderness of the heavens. The au- 
tumn leaves and the cones of the pines 
crackled under their feet, the wind 
moaned among the dried branches like 
a lost spirit doomed to wail forever 
over barren plains and leafless trees, 
and the darkness seemed filled with 
the murmuring of invisible sorrows. 
Yet they did not feel the depressing 
influence, for they were in the youth of 
life and the new moon of love, and to 
them there was no dreary night, no 
dead leaves, no weird branches, no 
moaning wind. They walked within 
the walls of paradise, and light, music, 
and flowers sprang into life as they 
passed. 

Fanchette was diplomatic, and, desir- 
ing to see her young mistress a count- 
ess, she lingered behind, so she did not 
hear the conversation ; neither did we, 
and for that reason we cannot give it 
literally. However, when they parted 
at the door of the Chateau Monthelon, 
while Fanchette was looking at the 
constellations of the heavens, Claude 
imprinted the first kiss of love on the 
trembling lips of Celeste in return for 
a sweet little “ yes ” she had whispered 
after some maidenly hesitation.' 

“ To-morrow I will speak to Father 
Fabien,” he said. Then he pressed the 
hand that lay in his, nodded signifi- 
cantly to Fanchette, and went away 
exulting like a king, a hero, a great 


general who had won an important bat- 
tle with all the chances against him. 
He congratulated himself that he had 
gained a victory, when in fact the 
enemy had surrendered, the citadel had 
fallen at the first shot, almost before 
the siege commenced. Nevertheless 
he believed himself to be a hero ; in 
that he was deluded, but his joy was 
real. His heart was as light as air, 
and his feet seemed to partake of the 
same lightness, for he bounded over the 
low fence that separated the two parks 
with the agility of a deer, and almost 
ran into the arms of two men who were 
earnestly talking together in the shadow 
of a great trunk. 

Claude was a little startled at first, 
but recognizing Fabien in the taller 
figure, and being too happy for suspi- 
cion, he merely glanced at them and 
hastened toward the chateau. 

Celeste, panting under the burden of 
her first secret, her heart beating tu- 
multuously in her rosy ears, her cheeks 
aglow, and her lips warm with her lov- 
er’s first kiss, flew to her room that she 
might be alone to think over that brief 
moment of joy. 

The next morning Aim^e tapped at 
the door of the Archdeacon’s study, 
and while she paused a moment for 
an answer it w^as thrown open and 
a strange priest came out. When his 
eyes fell upon her, he started as though 
he had been shot, and turned, if possi- 
ble, to a more deathly pallor. 

The girl flashed a glance straight 
through all disguises, and recognized in 
the priest the unfortunate who, the 
night before, had clasped and kissed the 
hem of her dress. Passing him like an 
arrow from a bow, she darted into the 
presence of Fabien, and almost startled 
him out of his composure by exclaiming, 
in a clear and confident voice, “ That 
is the old man who disturbed us last 
night ; who is he I ” 

“ You must be mistaken, my child,” 
replied the priest very firmly and calm- 
ly. “ He is Pere Benoit, a friend of 
mine, and a teacher in the college of 
St. Vincent.” 

NHmpo7'te she replied with an 
indisputable air of conviction. “He 
may be St. Vincent himself for aught I 
know, but he is none the less the man 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


25 


v/ho knelt on the terrace and kissed the 
hem of my dress.” 

Fabien looked at her and smiled in- 
dulgently, as one would at a wilful 
child whose opinion is not worth dis- 
puting. 

Her fixce turned crimson, and her 
eyes flashed preparatory to an outburst, 
which was prevented by a tap at the 
door, and Claude entering. 

“ I am more than fortunate this 
morning in the number of my visitors,” 
said the Archdeacon with stately but 
satirical courtesy, as he pushed a chair 
toward the new-comer. 

I should like a little private con- 
versation with you, if it will not in- 
convenience you,” returned Claude, 
glancing at Aimee, who was making 
disdainful grimaces behind Fabien’s 
back as she pointed to the heteroge- 
neous collection on the table. Noticing 
Claude’s glance, and angry that he 
sliould have any secret from her, she 
threw an old parchment she held in 
her hand with such force against the 
tripod that it made the bronze cat clat- 
ter, and elicited a gentle remonstrance 
from the Archdeacon. 

“ There seem to be a great many 
mysterious things here,” she said, glan- 
cing reproachfully at Claude and scorn- 
fully at Fabien as she left the room, 
closing the door with a sharp bang. 

The Archdeacon and Claude main- 
tained a silence of some moments after 
Aimee went out, each waiting for the 
other to make the first remark. 

It is, no doubt, a trying piece of 
business for a shy and modest youth to 
confess his love to the object of his 
devotion, even when he may know that 
ho will not be repulsed, and that all the 
fair recipient’s interest is enlisted in his 
favor. But how much more difficult to 
sit calmly down, free from the sweet 
excitement of the angel’s presence, and 
tell to a cold and disinterested listener 
the story of his first love ; its birth, 
its growth, its maturity ; and then de- 
mand formally, practically, and with 
conscious irony, permission to marry 
this chosen being, whom he knows he 
shall marry whether permission be 
given or not. '' 

Claude was young, and Claude was 
shy ; and, besides, there was no sympa- 


thy between him and his guardian. 
For some time it had been dawning 
upon him that, though nominally the 
master, he was actually the subject ; 
that the strong will and persevering 
energy of his tutor had fettered him 
with chains he could not throw off. 
At first he had not tried, and later, 
when he wished to, his gentle insouciante 
nature preferred peace rather than a 
severe struggle ; so he let matters take 
their course, and submitted to being 
little more than an automaton in the 
direction of his own affairs. But love 
had emboldened him, and now he was 
determined to marry Celeste Monthelon 
with or without her guardian’s consent. 
So it was with more manly courage 
than Fabien would have accredited to 
him that he said, “ The subject I wish 
to speak of is this : I have asked 
Mademoiselle Monthelon to be my 
wife, she has consented, and we await 
vour sanction. Can we depend upon 
itr’ 

A hectic flush dyed for a moment the 
cheek of the Archdeacon, and his eyes 
grew restless while his fingers moved 
with a scarcely perceptible writhing 
motion, peculiar to him when laboring 
under a suppressed excitement. Yet 
he said with his usual calm, though 
perhaps an inflection more of force in 
his voice than Claude liked to hear, 
“ Would your father, if he were living, 
approve of this marriage 1 Would he 
sanction an alliance with the child of a 
manufacturer whom he despised and 
considered an inferior] Should a son 
of one of the oldest and noblest families 
of France marry with a daughter of 
the people ] I repeat again, if your 
father were living would he consent to 
this marriage ] ” 

Claude worshipped the memory of 
his father, and no stronger argument 
than his disapproval could have been 
used against his cause. For a moment 
it startled and confused him ; then his 
love gained the ascendency, and he 
raised his head, and said, firmly, 
my fixther had lived to know 
Mademoiselle Monthelon, I believe he 
would have loved her, and forgotten his 
prejudices against her position. And I 
have such confidence in his love for me, 
that I am sure he would have made 


26 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


any sacrifice for my happiness. Celeste 
is young, lovely, and rich. We have 
known each other from childhood. Our 
estates join ; united, what a noble prop- 
erty it would become. But more than 
all worldly advantages,” here his voice 
took a deeper tone of pride and re- 
solve, “ she loves me, and I adore her. 
Then what can be a more suitable alli- 
ance 1 ” 

Claude paused, and looked at the 
Archdeacon as though he believed his 
words had carried conviction with them, 
and had shattered at one blow the frail 
barrier he would oppose. 

“ You must decide for yourself,” said 
Fabien, deliberately^, after a few mo- 
ments of deep thought, — “ you must 
decide for yourself, but I shall reserve 
the right to decide for my ward, Mad- 
emoiselle Monthelon.” 

“ And you will decide against me,” 
replied Claude, bitterly. “ I am con- 
vinced that you wall strive to make me 
miserable, but you will not succeed, 
for I am determined she shall be my 
wife ; I love her, and nothing shall part 
us.” And as he spoke, he rose ex- 
citedly, and turned to leave the room. 

This was the first time the docile 
pupil had rebelled, and the Archdeacon, 
believing he had sounded the depths of 
the young count’s nature, was surprised 
at this new development. Here was 
determination and courage he had not 
prepared himself to struggle with ; yet 
he was equal to the emergency. Lay- 
ing his hand heavily on the shoulder 
of Claude, and fixing him with his 
clear, intense gaze, he said, between his 
clenched teeth, “ Now it is your turn to 
listen to me. I have an account to 
settle with you. What can you say 
in regard to your intentions toward 
Aimee, my other ward? You have 
won the love of this poor child with 
false professions, and now you intend to 
desert her for another.” 

Claude stood aghast. “I do not 
quite understand you,” he faltered ; 
“Aimee ! I have thought of her only 
as .a sister. We have been like brother 
and sister from childhood, she loves me 
as a brother.” 

“ She loves you deeply, passionately, 
wdth all the strength of her strong na- 
ture, and you will desert her and marry 


another. It will kill her ! ” cried the 
priest with frenzy in his voice. 

Something had escaped from his heart 
in this moment of excitement that he 
did not intend to reveal ; so instantly 
crushing his emotion, and changing his 
voice, he continued calmly, “ I have 
done wrong to betray the poor child’s 
secret. It is only lately that I have 
known it, otherwise I would not have 
exposed her to your dangerous compan- 
ionsliip. You have trifled with Aimee, 
whether intentionally or thoughtlessly 
I cannot tell ; then how can I be assured 
of the sincerity of your affection for 
Mademoiselle Monthelon ^ ” 

“ It is not necessary you should be 
assured. If Celeste is convinced of my 
love, that is sufficient,” returned Claude 
haughtily and angrily. “ I only pray 
that you will save yourself the trouble 
of putting obstacles in my path, for, 
whatever they may be, I have the 
strength and the will to overcome 
them.” And with this he went out 
and left the Archdeacon alone to think 
of what he had said. 

When Claude rushed out into the 
open air, the hot blood w^as seething 
through his veins, anger, disappoint- 
ment, contempt, and astonishment were 
all struggling together in his vexed 
soul. Hitherto he had experienced no 
stronger emotion than love, his heart 
had been a stranger to resentment and 
suspicion. Now he seemed to be in 
the midst of a wdiirlwind of conflicting 
passions, the strongest of which w’as 
indignation at the unjust accusation of 
the Archdeacon that he had trifled with 
the girl whom he had loved and cher- 
ished as a sister. Then a new thought 
dawned upon his mind. The priest was 
ambitious for this, girl, who must be 
connected with him by some tie stronger 
than friendship ; he was ambitious, and 
wished to see her Countess of Clermont. 
Now that he imagined he had discov- 
ered a motive for his guardian’s strange 
conduct, he was, a little appeased and 
walked more calmly toward Monthelon, 
for he wished to see CMeste, to prepare 
her for possible obstacles, and to con- 
jure her to be firm and faithful under 
every trial. 

For some moments the Archdeacon 
stood where Claude had left him, his 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


liands clenched and his eyes fixed on 
the floor. Then he said with a pro- 
found sigh, shaking his head mourn- 
fully, He does not love her, he does 
not love her. Poor child ! I foresee 
tears and sorrow for her. She loves 
him and she will suffer for him. That 
is another incentive to revenge. Rash, 
defiant fool ! does he think to sweep 
me away with a blow of his hand, as 
one does a gnat that stings % Before 
this new moon of love grows old, I will 
teach him the strength of my opposition. 
I have other designs for my ward, the 
fair Lily must be transplanted to anoth- 
er garden.” And with these oracular 
words he turned to his crucible, shook 
together vehemently some different col- 
ored liquids, kindled a fire in the tripod, 
turned his hour-glass, and set himself 
down to a chemical experiment as ener- 
getically and resolutely as though he 
expected thereby to discover a remedy 
for the difficulties that had arisen dur- 
ing the interview with his defiant pupil. 


PART SEVENTH. 

THERE IS BUT ONE MAY IN A YEAR. 

It was one of those brilliant and ex- 
hilarating mornings in May that so often 
follow a succession of dreary days ; 
w^hen the sun shines like a child who 
laughs with all its heart, after having- 
wept much ; wdien the earth seems to 
throb wdth the new life that runs 
through its veins ; when the buds burst 
into blossom almost while we gaze upon 
them ; when the harebells and half- 
fledged ferns murmur and whisper to- 
gether like young lovers with heads 
touching ; when the sluggish blood of 
age and the warm blood of youth quick- 
en into a more fervent flow ; when the 
heart dances in the bosom of the happy, 
and even the lips of the sorrowful trem- 
ble with a smile. 

“ Nature is in fete this morning,” said 
the Archdeacon, as he stepped from his 
room on to the terrace. Throwing back 
his shoulders, he inhaled with intense 
satisfaction a long breath of pure air, 
while his eyes wandered down the shady 
walks, bordered with acacia, toward the 


27 

Seine, whose serpentine track sparkled 
here and there through the shrubbery. 
After he had gazed for a few moments 
on the exquisite scene, he walked slowly 
across the terrace, stooping often over a 
blossoming border to examine with the 
closest scrutiny some flower that at- 
tracted his attention. Plucking a bunch 
of scarlet geranium that flaunted in 
the sun, he looked at it curiously, in- 
quiringly, touching almost tenderly its 
velvet petals. “ What wonderful ■ de- 
sign is displayed here,” he said; “how 
simple, and yet how perfect ; how one 
part is adapted to the other with a sub- 
tle mechanism that defies imitation ! 
Who planned this delicate yet marvel- 
lous thing ^ Who touched it with flame, 
and wove it into a tissue of matchless 
beauty'? Those who would be wiser 
than their Creator, say it is but chance. 
How the simple things of creation con-^ 
found the false reasoning of the scholar ! 
It is well that those desiring to be infi- 
dels are dull and stupid to such wonder- 
ful revelations. I have studied and in- 
vestigated, believing that science would 
confound religion, but it is in vain ; the 
most inferior creation of God puts it to 
shame.” The face that had beamed for 
a moment under the glorious light of 
nature suddenly clouded over, and a 
profound sadness filled his voice as he 
continued : “ I am a contradiction to 
myself. I would be a stoic, and I can- 
not. I doubt, and I believe even while 
I doubt. I am utterly reckless and un- 
scrupulous in many things, and yet I 
trust and hope like a child. Why does 
God send such days *? They but soften 
the heart and draw it away from its 
purpose. It is better to be deaf and 
blind than to be constantly invaded by 
these influences of nature.” He fol- 
lowed his winding walk along the edge 
of the river, now and then pausing to 
examine a curiously striped butterfly 
fluttering from flower to flower, or a liz- 
ard stretching its graceful length in the 
warmth of the sun, or the incessant 
struggling of life represented by an ant- 
hill ; these seemed to absorb liim, in 
fact the most insignificant things inter- 
ested him, and one seeing him would 
have declared him to bo a naturalist 
searching for new specimens of insect 
creation. 


28 


A CEOWN FEOM THE SPEAK. 


And so sauntering along, the Archdea- 
con turned a serpentine path and came 
suddenly upon two persons sitting on a 
stone bench, near an ancient fountain, 
overshadowed by roses and laurel. One 
was a young man with a book in his 
hand, and his head bent over the book. 
The other a girl, her elbow resting on 
her knee, her open palm supporting her 
cheek, and her eyes devouring the face 
of her companion. The young man 
was Claude. The girl was Aimee. 

The cheek of Fabien blanched, and 
he turned hastily away without being 
seen. “He does not love her,” he 
thought, “ho does not love her ; if he 
loved her he would look at her instead 
of his book. And she — she loves him, 
and will never love another. I know 
her nature, she will be constant to this 
fatal affection. Poor child 1 why did I 
^not foresee this danger for herl Ah! 
what a tempest there will be when she 
knows he loves Celeste.” With these 
unhappy thoughts filling his heart, he 
turned into a walk that led to the cha- 
teau, and, raising his eyes, a vision of 
placid beauty suddenly appeared before 
him. 

Mademoiselle Monthelon was coming 
slowly down the avenue, between the 
rows of shining laurel. The sunlight 
flickered over her white dress and yel- 
low hair, and in her white hands was a 
tangled mass of violets and daisies. She 
did not see the priest, but came softly 
toward him, her eyes fixed on her 
flowers, a smile dimpling her mouth and 
trembling under her downcast lids. 

JWhat a sweet, frail thing she w’as, so 
delicate, so gentle and innocent ! and 
yet the Archdeacon, as he looked at her, 
hated Iver bitterly, for she had come be- 
tween him and his fondly cherished 
plans, and he was determined she should 
be swept aside as one would sweep away 
the fallen leaf of a rose. Fair and gen- 
tle, a very lily of purity, she must be 
crushed and blighted for his ambitioi;. 

“ A title for my Airn^e, a convent for 
Celeste ; Monthelon for the Church, and 
— and a dead heart for me,” he mut- 
tered, turning toward the girl and ad- 
dressing her with a more gentle voice 
and a more gracious manner than usual. 

“You see I am alone,” she said, in 
reply to his salutation. “Fanchette 


stepped aside to gather some brier-roses 
for my bouquet, while I walked on in 
search of Aim^e. Can you tell me 
where she is 1 ” 

“Yes,” replied Fabien, fixing his 
piercing eyes steadily on the face of 
the girl ; “ she is with yow?- lover” 

Celeste flushed rosy red at the term 
so startling and yet so delightful, and 
said, with a little touch of jealousy in 
her voice, “ I thought he would have 
come to walk with me this lovely morn- 
ing.” 

“ They are evidently very happy in 
each other’s society,” returned the 
priest, insinuatingly. 

Celeste fingered her violets nervously, 
with a troubled expression on her face, 
while the Archdeacon went on to sow 
the first seeds of suspicion in her gentle 
heart. 

“Trust to nothing ; there is nothing 
true but religion,” he said ; “ it is the 
only thing that will not deceive you ; 
it is a sure and safe anchor for the soul. 
The heart of man is feeble and uncer- 
tain, and love is like the wind that 
changes each day My child, school 
your heart to beat disappointment and 
sorrow. Kemember the sun does not 
always shine, and there is but one May 
in a year.” 

“ That is true,” she replied, while a 
bright smile chased aw^ay the cloud 
from her face ; “ but there are other 
months as fair as May, and love makes 
sunlight always.” 

“ Perhaps ; but there is so little love, 
and so few' are constant. And then, a 
youth does not understand his owm 
heart ; the first emotion he experiences 
he imagines to be love.” 

“ 0 mon pere ! ” she cried, with 
mingled trust and doubt in her voice, 
“you cannot mean that Claude has 
deceived me, that he does not love me, 
that — that he is mistaken in thinking 
he loves me 1 ” 

“ My child,” said Fabien, looking 
into her face with gentle interest, “ it 
is most painful to me to tell you this, 
but I fear he has deceived you. I 
believe ho loves another.” 

“ Who ? ” she gasped, letting the 
violets fall from her hands, as though 
they were smitten w'ith palsy. 

“You shall see for yourself.” And 


CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


29 


he turned toward the laurel-shaded 
fountain. 

Claude still read, and Aimee still 
gazed into his face. The youth’s eyes 
were bent upon his book, but his hand 
lay with a caressing touch on the head 
of his companion. 

Celeste took in the living picture at 
a glance, and long after it haunted her 
with its grace and beauty. She said 
not a word, but clasping her hand 
tightly over her heart, turned away, 
followed by her guardian. 

Neither spoke until they reached the 
end of the laurel walk, and went out of 
the flickering sunlight into the shadowy 
avenue of elms ; then Celeste raised a 
sorrow-stricken face, and said, in a voice 
burdened with tears, “ It is true, there 
is but one May in a year.” 


PART EIGHTH. 

THE HEART OF A PRIEST IS THE HEART 
OF A MAN. 

Pere Benoit of the college of St. 
Vincent and the Archdeacon were often 
closeted together for long hours, and in 
the mysterious study there was much 
investigation that was not of a strictly 
scientific character. The inlaid cabinet 
that had been stuffed from time imme- 
morial with musty, dusty, yellow papers, 
the chronicles of all the Clermonts, was 
emptied of its contents, examined in 
every part, tapped upon, and thumped 
upon, after the manner of a physician 
who would like to discover a disease in 
a perfectly sound chest ; but all in vain, 
for the old cabinet was as intact as the 
most exasperatingly healthy person who 
ever defrauded a doctor of a patient. 
There were no holes but tiny worm- 
holes, that were too small to conceal 
anything larger than the worms that 
bored them ; there were no secret 
drawers, no double panels ; it was a 
very simple piece of furniture as far as 
mechanism was displayed, but it seemed 
to have a strange interest for the 
men who examined it. The Archdeacon 
wiped away the perspiration from his 
forehead as he assisted Pere Benoit to 
return it to its place against the Flan- 


ders leather hanging, for it was very 
heavy, and such exertion was unusual. 
Then they rejdaced the drawers, and 
rearranged the dried bats and serpents 
on their dusty shelves, closed the glass 
doors, and set to work to examine care- 
fully the pile of papers that lay on the 
floor. Fabien’s brow wrinkled more 
than once with dissatisfaction as he 
threw one after another aside, until he 
had gone over all and found nothing 
he desired to find. 

Afterwards they held a long and con- 
fidential discourse, in which they ex- 
pressed their surprise, regret, and 
mutual disappointment at the failure 
of their search, and their firm deter- 
mination to continue an investigation 
which was not to be baffled by the first 
ill success. 

No one seemed to like this haggard- 
faced, hollow-eyed P^re Benoit. As did 
the man without a shadow, he carried 
fear and distrust wherever he went. 
The servants at Clermont eyed him 
askance, although he was very gentle 
and courteous to all, creeping in and 
out with a sort of deprecating humility. 
Claude rarely noticed him, believing him 
to be a sort of dependant on the bounty 
of Fabien. But yet he felt an aversion 
toward him that he considered as fool- 
ish as it was unjust. Aimee avoided 
him as she would a pest; if he en- 
tered the study of Fabien when she 
was there, she would glance at him 
with visible dislike and fear, and rush 
out as though she were pursued by a 
dragon. 

For several days after the Archdeacon 
had planted his first crop of tares in 
the heart of Celeste, she remained shut 
up in her own chateau, refusing to see 
or write to either Claude or Aim^e. 
The young Count was desperate ; he 
despatched note after note, but received 
no reply; he assailed Fanchette with 
entreaties and threats, but she was 
invulnerable, and the only information 
he received from her was that her mis- 
tress was suffering from a nervous at- 
tack and did not wish to be disturbed. 
Claude was miserable ; he half suspected 
that some influence of the Archdeacon 
was at work against him, yet he could 
discover nothing. In the first flush of 
his joy he had often repeated tohimself. 


30 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


“ Hoav happy one is when one loves ! ” 
Now in the first moment of sorrow and 
disappointment he was constrained to 
say, “ How miserable one is when one 
loves ! ’’ 

Aimee secretly rejoiced that Celeste 
hept out of her way. Lately she had 
suspected that Claude was deeply in 
love with her friend, and that some 
misunderstanding had occurred between 
them which she believed would end in 
a final rupture if she could regain her 
former influence over him. She was 
selfish, if not unscrupulous, and she did 
not care who suffered, if she w^as happy. 

One morning while Celeste remained 
a voluntary prisoner in her chateau 
among the elms, Aim^e came up the 
broad steps and through the cool breezy 
corridors of Clermont, singing in a clear 
voice the song of the Hirondelle ; the 
Archdeacon met her, and telling her he 
had something to say to her, took her 
hand and led her to his study. When 
there he closed the door, and pushed a 
chair toward her. She did not sit down, 
but leaned on it with folded arms, while 
she regarded with contempt the Venus 
changed to a Magdalen ; it always 
seemed to irritate her, with its smile of 
sin and semblance of piety. Girl though 
she was, she understood the nature of 
the deception and scorned it. 

“ Look at me, Aimee, and not at the 
Magdalen,” said Fabien severely, after 
a moment’s pause. 

“ Why should I not look at the pic- 
ture and listen to you at the same 
time 1 ” she replied, impertinently. “ In 
that way I can take a double lesson, 
one in deception, the other in religion, 
because it is to lecture me that you 
have brought me here, to scold me for 
not having been to communion this 
morning. Is it not 1 ” 

“ It is,” answered the Archdeacon. 
“ You have been very remiss lately in 
your religious duties.” 

“ I fear I have, mon pere,^^ she said, 
sinking on her knees, and bending her 
head over her clasped hands with mock- 
ing gravity ; “ but I will confess all 
now, and you shall give me absolution.” 

Fabien did not speak, but regarded 
earnestly the lovely kneeling figure be- 
fore him, and while he looked at her his 
face seemed a mirror in which was 


reflected many emotions. Admiration, 
love, pity, passion, tenderness, and 
despair, all swept over him, until he 
could scarce resist the desire to clasp 
her to his heart and pour out his soul 
in frenzied protestations. “ My God,” 
he thought, “ I ought to drive her from 
my presence and never look upon her 
again ; she crushes my will as though it 
were a bubble, she drives reason and 
ambition from my brain. No matter 
how I struggle against her power, she 
teaches me that the heart of a priest 
is the heart of a man, and its cries will 
not always be stifled.” 

Only an instant these thoughts filled 
his mind; then he swept them away 
with a supreme effort, and said calmly, 
“ I await your confession, my child.” 

Aim^e remained silent. 

“ Hast thou broken any of the Com- 
mandments since thy last confession ” 

“ Yes,” she replied, not without emo- 
tion. 

“ Which ? ” 

“ The first ; I have loved another bet- 
ter than God.” 

“ Oh ! ” sighed the Archdeacon, like 
one racked with pain ; “ that is indeed 
a sin, but who is the object of thy idol- 
atry % ” 

Her face and neck flushed crimson, 
but she raised her eyes and replied firm- 
ly, “ Claude.” 

“ Poor child, I pity thee ! but thou 
art young, and it is not difficult at thy 
age to kill this affection, which ■ — ” 

“ To kill,” she interrupted. “ Why 
should it be killed 1 It is not a sin to 
love, if we do not forget God.” 

“ It is a sin to love, if thy love is un- 
lawful.” 

“ I never heard that love was unlaw- 
ful between those who are free to love.” 

“ Claude is not free, he is the promised 
husband of Mademoiselle Monthelon.” 

Aim^e forgot her confession, forgot 
she was on her knees before an arch- 
deacon, forgot that she was outraging 
the privileges of the Church, and spring- 
ing up, with clenched hands, dilated 
pupils, and anger stamped on every 
line of her face, she cried, “ That is a 
falsehood ; how dare you tell me a thing 
so fixlsc 1 Claude never kept any secret 
from mo. If he was promised to Celeste, 
he would have told me.” 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


31 


“ Calm yourself, ma cherie," said Fa- 
bien gently, almost afraid of the tempest 
he had raised, — “ calm yourself and 
listen to me. I will explain all and 
convince you that what I say is true.” 

She looked at him a moment, her 
brow contracted, her e3^es flashing, and 
her teeth pressed hard into her under- 
lip. Then a smile of scorn and doubt 
flickered over her face,, and she said 
with a gasp, “ I don’t know that I 
can believe you, for you are not sincere. 
All these things,” with a sweep of her 
hand toward the Magdalen, the Flan- 
ders leather, and the triumphs of Jupi- 
ter, “ convince me that you are not 
good and true ; these are not the sacred 
subjects that should surround a priest. 
A shepherd of souls should look at none 
of these things.” 

Fabien winced, but he smiled indul- 
gently, treating her like a child, as he 
always did. “ Your simplicity excuses 
your rudeness, my daughter. But if 
you doubt me,” he added a little stern- 
ly, “ leave my room and come to me no 
more. It is for your own good that I 
desire to open your eyes, and let you 
see things as they are ; but if you prefer 
not to see, why then remain blind.” 

“ I wish to see. I will see. I will 
know all,” she returned fiercely. “ I will 
hear your explanation, but I will not 
believe Claude intends to marry Ce- 
leste until I hear it from his own lips.” 

She folded her arms, straightened 
herself to a grim rigidity, fixed her 
eyes on the armor with the ugly skull, 
and listened while the Archdeacon told 
her of his interview with Claude some 
time before. 

When he had finished, the girl’s face 
was very pale and resolute, the marked 
eyebrows had a decidedl}’- wicked curve, 
and the eyes a subtle intensity, like a 
young tiger ready to spring upon its 
prey. 

“ He loves her then, if I am to be- 
lieve this ; but lie will never marry her, 
I will kill them both first,” she cried, 
with insane rage. 

“ For God’s sake hush, my child,” 
implored the Archdeacon, “ There are 
other means less tragic by which this 
marriage may be prevented. Listen to 
me, and I will show you how easily it 
may be managed. Celeste even now, at 


the birth of her love, is suspicious and 
jealous of you. It is because she doubts 
her lover that she shuts herself up at 
Monthelon, under the pretence of ill- 
ness.” Aimee’s eyes sparkled with vin- 
dictive joy. “ And it is not altogether a 
pretence. She is ill, but it is the heart, 
the mind, and no physician can cure 
that malady, but the slightest look, 
tone, hint, will augment it. She is 
physically weak, she has not a strong 
character, there is no heroism in her 
nature, she will* sink under the slight- 
est attack without combating it, she is 
too credulous and yielding to resist or 
dispute, and so can easily be disposed 
of. A convent is the place for such 
a feeble spirit as hers. My influence 
is great, she is pious and devout. I 
will show her how fair and peaceful a 
refuge she will find in the Church, and 
her bruised heart will aid me in an 
object that is, after all, right. We 
should benefit the Church at any cost, 
at any sacrifice. And the end always 
justifies the means.” 

“ Disinterested reasoning,” cried the 
girl scornfully, “ but of what advantage 
will your success be to me ? You will 
separate them, and he will love her the 
more. It is not alone his wealth and 
title I want, it is his love.” 

“ Your charms will win that in time,” 
said the Archdeacon with conviction. 

“ Never ; if with truth and innocence 
I have failed, I cannot succeed when 
my heart is tarnished with falsehood 
and deceit. He has a more noble soul 
than yours, and he would detect the 
imposition. No, no, I will not be your 
accomplice, for it would be useless. If 
I was sure a crime would win his love, 
I would commit it, but my heart tells 
me it would be in vain. It would 
separate me from him forever. Do 
what you will, but I cannot aid yoii. 
I will hear the truth from his lips, and 
— and my resolve is taken. I will not 
come between him and his desires. I 
love him enough to suffer for him, to 
die for him, and too much to see his 
happiness with her I hate. Yes, I hate 
her, with her deceitful white face and 
innocent ways. She knew I loved him, 
that I had always loved him, and she 
has come between us and separated us. 
I hate her ! ” she hissed venomously, — 


32 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


“I hate lier. Make her suffer if you 
can, but spare him. Remember what 1 
say. If you injure a hair of his head, 
mj^ vengeance will be terrible.’’ 

Since the day the child betrayed her 
father in the tower of Notre Dame, 
Fabien had known that there was some- 
thing fierce, implacable, stubborn, and 
defiant in her nature, but he had never 
understood the full strength of it until 
now. He felt a shiver pass over him 
as she looked at him ^with eyes that 
seemed to emit sparks of baleful light ; 
and when she turned to leave the room 
he had no power to detain her, although 
there were a thousand things he wished 
to say. She had reached the door, when 
suddenly the thought of what he had 
done for her since the hour when she 
was cast a waif on his mercy, his indul- 
gence, his love, his patience, his care, 
all overpowered her and filled her heart 
with remorse. She glanced at him. His 
head was bowed ; seemingly he was 
crushed beneath her scorn, her re- 
proaches, her threats. In a moment she 
was on her knees before him, covering 
his hands with tears and kisses, implor- 
ing him to have pity on her, to forgive 
her, and to love her always. 

The Archdeacon folded her to his 
heart. In that supreme moment he for- 
got he was a priest, and therefore not a 
feeble man. All the love and passion 
of his soul overflowed and drowned his 
reason. He was only conscious of one 
thing, — this girl whom he adored with 
all the intensity of his nature, and who 
until then had treated him with. cold- 
ness and indifference, had thrown her- 
self voluntarily at his feet and covered 
his hands with her tears and kisses. 
And while he held her to his heart, this 
stern cold priest, this immaculate shep- 
herd of souls, this man whom the world 
believed dead to the passions of life, 
experienced for a moment 

That part of Paradise which man 
Without the portal knows, 

Which hath been since the world began, 
And shall be to its close.” 

An instant only, and then Aimee tore 
herself from his embrace, and without 
a glance or word fled from the room; 
and as she went she dashed from her 
face tears that had fallen from eyes 
which had seldom wept before. 


PART NINTH. 

THE ALLEY OF SIGHS. 

On the left of the grand avenue that 
crossed the park of Clermont was a 
winding walk, shaded by pines and wil- 
lows, that terminated, more than a mile 
from the chateau, in an abrupt and dan- 
gerous precipice which rose above the 
Seine to the height of more than tvvo 
hundred feet, forming a part of tlie 
base of Mont St. Catherine. At a lit- 
tle distance from the extreme edge of 
this precipice the trees were cut away, 
leaving an open space from which ®ne 
could see the city of Rouen and the 
serpentine winding of the river far be- 
low him. The shaded walk leading to 
this cliff had always been knowm as the 
Allee des Soupirs. Perhaps its umbra- 
geous gloom and the moaning of the 
wind, that seemed to sigh mysteiiously 
among the mournful pines when it w^as 
heard nowhere else, suggested the name. 
It was not a retreat a happ)y person 
would have chosen. Only one steeped 
in melancholy would have sought it as 
a congenial spot to nurse his morbid 
fancies. Nevertheless it was a favorite 
resort of the Archdeacon when he wished 
to be quite alone to brood over his cher- 
ished schemes, and the stone seat facing 
the Seine scarcely ever had any other 
occupant. 

But on this day, when Fabien, in the 
privacy of his study, plotted with Aimee, 
Claude sat there with a book in his 
hand, out of which he read from time 
to time passages that seemed to interest 
him. He had wandered down the Alley 
of Sighs miserably dejected, his heart 
filled with doubt, sorrow, and disap- 
pointment at the unaccountable check 
to his ardent love. He had written 
note after note filled with the most ten- 
der expressions of affection. The notes 
had been retained, but only a cold, ver- 
bal message had come that Mademoiselle 
Monthelon was too ill to reply to Mon- 
sieur le Comte. Not knowing what 
course to take, he was in tortures of un- 
certainty. Sometimes indignant, and 
suspecting some plot of the Archdeacon 
and Fanchette, he determined to storm 
the citadel and force a passage into the 
presence of his beloved. Then he 
thought how unwise and ridiculous such 


CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


33 


a step would be, if she were really ill, 
too ill to see him. Tormented with 
these conflicting emotions, he found 
very little distraction in the scene be- 
fore him, and less consolation in the 
pages of the book which he turned list- 
lessly over. It was the Pensees de 
Blaise Pascal, and this passage on the 
possibilities of a future life attracted 
his attention : “ Vous me direz ici que 
je confonds mal a propos le bonheur 
actuel dont je joiiis avec le parfait 
bonheur ; qu’il y a cependant grande 
difference de Tun a I’autre.” He pon- 
dered over the words, “ Permanent 
duration is the marked characteristic 
of true happiness ; present happiness 
is not only short-lived, but it often pro- 
duces a succession of sorrows the most 
redoubtable.” Again he read : “ Les 
stoiques disent : Rentrez au-dedans de 
vous-memes. C’est la oil vous trouve- 
rez votre repos ; et cela n’est pas vrai. 
Les autres disent : Sortez dehors, et 
cherchez le bonheur en vous divertis- 
sant ; et cela n’est pas vrai. Les mala- 
dies viennent ; le bonheur n’est ni dans 
nous, ni hors de nous, il est en Dieu et en 
nous.” These sentiments impressed him 
with their truth, because he had already 
found how uncertain is earthly happi- 
ness, and how useless it is to strive to 
find it within ourselves or without, in 
the midst of the diversions of life. It 
must be the gift of God, or otherwise it 
is but a momentary satisfaction. 

Claude had studied and thought 
much, but in a desultory way, — the re- 
sult of leisure and general reading ; 
therefore he had not reached the great 
fundamental principles of life, which 
perhaps, after all, we oftener learn from 
sorrow and the experience that we gain 
from contact with the great heart of 
humanity, that heart which must throb 
and burn with ours before we can enter 
into rapport with it. He had passed 
his life, so far, in dreamy inaction, doing 
nothing, because there was no necessity 
to impel him. Yet there were times 
when he questioned himself sharply, as 
to what right he had, simply because 
God had given him wealth, to be an 
idler. While others of his fellow-men 
endured the heat of the day, toiling 
like patient beasts of burden for the 
bare necessities of life, he folded his 
3 


hands in luxurious ease, ooing nothing 
for himself or humanity. His soul was 
full of generous impulses. He had 
given freely of his wealth to the poor, 
to the Church, to charitable institutions, 
through the medium of the Archdeacon, 
and had never refused the heavy de- 
mands he constantly made upon his 
charity. One knowing how freely he 
dispensed his bounties would have said 
that he believed, to the full extent, in 
the Scriptural adage, that it is more 
blessed to give than to receive. There 
was something of prodigality in the 
freedom with which h^ showered bene- 
fits on all, still there was very little 
satisfaction in it. He did not delude 
himself with sophistry ; he knew he 
made no sacrifice of self, therefore there 
could be no merit in it. At times, be- 
fore he was conscious of his great love 
for Celeste, ambitious desires had stirred 
the placid stream of his life, but only 
at short intervals ; the natural indolence 
of his nature usually asserted itself, 
and he ^vould decide that, after all, a life 
of political or literary activity was but 
a conflict in which one was almost al- 
ways ingloriously defeated. When he 
loved Celeste and knew that love re- 
turned, he desired nothing more. A 
calm, domestic life with her seemed to 
him the supreme good, the ultimate 
blessing, that could be added to his 
already favored existence. That cer- 
tainty had been short-lived. The Arch- 
deacon had presented obstacles that 
annoyed him at first, and that now 
threatened him with the annihilation of 
all his hopes. Searching his brain for 
some assistance in his trouble, he sud- 
denly thought of Aim^e, and decided he 
would make her his mediator, as she 
had often been between him and the 
Archdeacon, and his intercessor with 
Celeste. This thought encouraged and 
comforted him, and he arose with a 
lighter heart to return to the chateau. 
Then, for the first time, he was aware 
how long he had sat there musing over 
his book and his sorrows. The after- 
noon was gone, and night was rapidly 
obliterating the golden footsteps of the 
sun. He lingered to look down on 
Rouen. The sombre city was growing 
solemn in the twilight. The majestic 
towers of Notre Dame and St. Ouen 


34 


CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


made a silhouette against the gray sky. 
A light mist rose up ghost-like from the 
river, the wind swept in little gusty 
moans down the Alley of Sighs. His 
afternoon revery and the sadness of the 
scene filled his heart with a gentle mel- 
ancholy that perhaps was augmented 
by the coming events that threw their 
shadows before. With a heavy sigh he 
turned to leave the spot, and came face 
to face with Aim^e. A spectre could 
not have startled him more, she was so 
pale, and her eyes met his with such a 
strange expression that he shivered. 
Then her dress of black, which was un- 
usual, relieved only by a scarlet scarf 
wound around her throat, made a most 
disagreeable impression. She seemed 
to be transformed into something differ- 
ent from the Aim4e he had parted with 
a few hours before; the white-robed, 
laughing girl of the morning appeared 
in^the twilight like a ghost clothed in 
diabolical colors. 

“ How did you know I was here % ” 
was Claude's first exclamation, when 
he had recovered a little from his sur- 
prise. 

“ I searched everywhere for you, until 
one of the gardeners told me he saw you 
enter the Alley of Sighs, and as I wished 
to 'talk with you free from interruption 
I followed you here.” 

She spoke calmly, but Claude discov- 
<ered an increasing agitation, that was 
apparent in the hectic color of her 
cheek and her restless eyes. 

You are the one of all others I 
most wished to see at this moment, 
Aim4e. I, too, have something to say 
to you ; you can do me a great service, 
if you will,” he said, earnestly, laying 
both hands on her shoulders, and look- 
ing into her half-averted face. 

Indeed ! and what is the serviced” 
she inquired, coldly. 

Claude told her briefly of his love for 
Celeste, and his suffering at being sep^ 
arated from her, and was going on to 
implore her intercession, when the girl 
interrupted him with a cry of anguish 
that startled him. Then you indeed 
love her so much 1 ” 

“ Better than my life,” he replied, 
firmly. 

Her hands fell, and she stood motion- 
less, her eyes fixed on vacancy, while 


from time to time she sobbed, “ Mon 
Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! ” 

Claude looked at her stupidly, not 
understanding ; then suddenly the 
thought flashed upon him that perhaps 
her emotion was caused by some mis- 
fortune that had befallen Celeste, and 
he cried in a voice of entreaty, “Tell 
me, Aim^e, is Celeste seriously ill 1 has 
anything happened to her 1 Tell me, for 
I am dying of anxiety.” 

These passionate words startled her 
from her rigidity, and fixing her eyes 
fiercely on him she replied, “ Do not 
speak to me of Celeste. 1 hate her so 
that I would gladly see her dead before 
me. She is well ; she is happy. It is 
I who am suffering, who am dying. 
She triumphs over me, and you have 
no pity for me. 0 Claude, how I have 
loved you ! I have prayed for you as we 
only pray for those who are a part of 
ourselves. I have thought of you as 
no other ever will. You have been my 
idol, my god, my religion, ever since 
the day I first saw you. I would have 
suffered the pain and sorrow that is 
coming upon you gladly, and counted 
myself more than blessed to share any 
fate with you. I would have lived for 
you, I would have died for you, if you 
had but loved me instead of that white- 
faced, passionless creature, that hypo- 
critical — ” 

“ Hush ! ” cried Claude, sternly ; “ not 
a word against Celeste, she is an angel.” 

No woman can endure to hear her 
rival praised, and to such a nature as 
Aim4e’s it was fuel to fire ; it was the 
spark that exploded the pent-up pas- 
sions of her heart ; and she broke out 
into such frenzied invectives that 
Claude was dumb with amazement. 
She went on insanely, heaping injustice 
upon injustice, insult upon insult. 

“ I hate her ; I despise her ; she is a 
cowardly, deceitful intruder, who has 
come between us, and changed your 
heart by her wiles. You loved me 
once, you thought me an angel ; you 
praised my beauty; you sought my 
society and my sympathy; you made 
me love you by a thousand tendernesses 
and professions; and now you have 
grown weary of me, and you fling me 
aside and seek a new love.” 

Claude regarded her with deep com- 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


35 


miseration ; so young, so lovely, yet so 
entirely controlled by these passionate 
emotions. His eyes filled with tears as 
he looked at her, and he said, in a 
voice of extreme pity and gentleness, 
“Airaee, how you will suffer for hav- 
ing been so unjust toward Celeste, to- 
ward me, who have both loved you as a 
sister. Have I ever professed any other 
love for you than the simple and sincere 
love of a brother 1 If you have mis- 
taken my kindnesss, my forbearance, 
my indulgence, for other than a frater- 
nal love, am I to blame 1 Think of it 
calmly, without passion, and you will 
see that I have always treated you as a 
beloved sister.” 

His gentle words pierced her heart 
with a spasm of pain. She indeed re- 
membered his love, his kindness, his 
generosity toward her who had no claims 
upon him. This thought calmed the 
tempest of anger as nothing else could, 
and her voice was filled with contrition, 
as she said, “It is true, you have done 
nothing that I should reproach you for. 
You are not to blame that you do not 
love me ; it is my own miserable heart 
that has deceived me, for I once was 
sure of your affection ; now I know 
you have never loved me, and all this 
maddens me, and robs me of hope. 
You were my life, without you I will 
not live, I cannot live. All is lost ; I 
am resolved, I will not live to know you 
hate me.” 

Her voice was broken, and her eyes 
were filled with tears that did not fall, 
as she raised her despairing young face 
to Claude. He took her hands in his, 
and pressing them fondly to his lips he 
said in tones of touching tenderness, 
for his heart was moved with pity, 
“ Aimee, my little sister, my playmate 
from childhood, my dearest thing on 
earth beside Celeste, you know I love 
you with All a brother’s heart. Let us 
forget these bitter words. Your passion 
has blinded you ; you cannot see clearly 
into your own heart ; you have mis- 
taken the natufe of your love for me, 
it is but the deep affection of a sister ; 
so be to me indeed a sister; help me 
in my trouble with Celeste, and I will 
love and bless you always.” 

She looked into his face with a long, 
devouring gaze, as though she would I 


imprint every feature upon her heart 
forever, and said in a slow, solemn tone, 
“ It is impossible, Claude ; I cannot help 
to make you happy with another, but I 
can retire from your life. I can leave 
you to accomplish your desires alone. 
If I should remain with you, I should be 
but a discordant element. My place is 
no longer here. Adieu ! Claude, adieu ! ” 
she cried, with passionate sobs breaking 
into the fixed calmness of her words. 
“ Adieu forever. Let no thought of me 
intrude upon your hours of content. 
Death is a thousand times prefer- 
able to the sight of your happiness 
with another. You will see me no 
more ; my resolve is taken, I will tear 
myself from a life that imposes a burden 
heavier than I can bear. A silence shall 
come between us, an eternal silence, 
and you will forget I have ever lived.” 
Her lips were white and tremulous, 
and her voice clear and piercing with 
the suffering that only an excitable and 
highly wrought temperament experien- 
ces in moments of extreme mental dis- 
tress. 

Claude was alarmed ; for although he 
had often witnessed her tempests, and 
listened to her exaggerated threats, dur- 
ing her frequent passionate outbursts, he 
had never seen such traces of anguish 
upon her face as now. He attempted 
again to take her hands, to draw her near 
him, to soothe her with gentle words, 
but with one look of reproach and 
sorrow that he never forgot she sprang 
from him and darted through the laurels 
into the thicket of trees that grew close 
to the precipitous bank of the river. 

For a moment Claude was stupefied, 
then with an effort he recovered himself 
and sprang after her. A crash, a cry, 
a long piteous wail. Was it the shriek 
of a soul in pain, or the wind wandering 
down the Alley of Sighs 1 He knew not, 
but a sudden chill passed over him. All 
was silent now ; he parted the branches 
and looked down, down into the shadowy 
depths of the Seine, growing dark and 
mysterious in the fast-gathering twilight. 
A deadly pallor passed over his face, and 
great drops of sweat fell from his brow 
while he gazed, for he fancied the water 
eddied and rippled as though lately dis- 
turbed by a falling body, and he could 
have sworn that he saw a gleam of 


36 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


scarlet, a white face, and the tinge of a 
black dress under the yellow surface of 
the river. For years after to see that 
combination of colors made him turn 
sick, so vividly did they impress them- 
selves upon his brain in that moment. 
“ My God ! ” he cried, pressing his hand 
to his beating heart, “ is it possible she 
meant what she said 1 Has she thrown 
herself into the river 'i And have I been 
the cause 1 Can it be that my words 
drove the poor girl to sudden and dread- 
ful death 1 0 Heaven ! what can I do 1 

No help can reach her from this height, 
and before I can descend it will be too 
late.” Again he looked eagerly down, 
crying, “ Aim4e ! Aimee ! ” but the placid 
water returned no answer. All was 
silent above and beneath him. A bird 
hopped across the branches, a bat 
whirled around his head ; nature made 
no reply to his despairing voice. It 
was dumb, because it was unconscious 
of the tragedy that filled his soul with 
horror. Bewildered, hopeless, almost 
maddened by the succession of thoughts 
that rushed through his burning brain, 
he turned to seek help, although he felt 
it useless, and saw before him the gaunt 
figure, the haggard face, of P6re Benoit. 

Before Claude was well aware of the 
priest’s presence, he felt his claw-like 
hand clutching his throat, and his voice 
like the hiss of a serpent, as he said, 
close to his ear, “ I know all. You are 
a murderer ! You have driven the poor 
girl to death to hide your crime from 
the world. You plunged her down the 
precipice into the river. I heard her 
call for help.” 

“ My Cod ! ” cried Claude, wrenching 
himself from the priest’s grasp. “ Are 
you mad, that you utter such a lie ] I 
have not harmed the poor girl. I loved 
her as a sister, how then could I injure 
one hair of her head 1 If she has come 
to harm, it was her own uncontrolled 
passion that led to such a fearful result. 

I am innocent. God above knows I am 
innocent. Do not stand here accusing 
me. Let us try to reach the river ; if 
she has fallen down the precipice, we 
at least may find her body.” 

The priest turned mechanically and 
followed Claude, who with livid face 
and bloodshot eyes rushed down the 
narrow winding path. 


“ She may have descended this way,” 
he cried, after a few moments, turning 
suddenly upon the priest, who was fol- 
lowing him desperately, his black robe 
torn by the thorns and jagged rocks. His 
hands were clenched and his lips com- 
pressed, while his eyes were fixed mena- 
cingly on the sorrow-stricken young man 
before him. 

When Claude turned his anxious face 
upon him, the priest’s eyes fell, and he 
crossed himself, saying only, Mon 
Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! ” 

“ Do you not think, that, after all, she 
may have rushed down this path, and 
gone on by the beach-road to St. Ouen 1 
See, here are certainly marks of a wo- 
man’s shoe in the sand.” 

A woman’s shoe,” repeated the 
priest bitterly and laconically, “ I see 
only the track of a goat’s hoof.” 

Claude said no more, but sighed heav- 
ily as he glanced down on the river a 
few paces from him. In a moment they 
stood on the shore side by side, Claude 
trembling visibly, for he expected to see 
a white, reproachful face looking at him 
from the depths of the shadowy river 
into which he gazed long and intently ; 
but he saw nothing save the shadow of 
the overhanging cliff, and one trembling 
star reflected from the azure heavens. 
Then he raised his eyes to the face of 
the precipice with its weird, waving 
branches, and cried out with sharp an- 
guish, as we sometimes cry to the dead, 
even when we know they cannot hear 
us, “ Aim4e, Aim4e.” 

There was no reply, only the long- 
continued melancholy echo, “ Aim6e, 
Aim^e ! ” 


PART TENTH. 

THIS IS ALL WE HAVE POUND. 

Both men stood looking silently each 
into the face of the other, and the silence 
was not broken until Claude gasped, 
hopelessly, Then we can do nothing ? ” 
“ Yes ; we can try to find the body,” 
said the priest, in a voice of suppressed 
emotion ; “ let us return to the chateau 
and send some one for boatmen to drag 
the river before the tide takes it beyond 
their reach.” 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


37 


Claude shuddered at the word “ it,” 
and covering his face with his hands he 
sobbed aloud. Was it possible, then, 
that Aim^e, the perfection of health 
and beauty, the gayest, brightest crea- 
ture that ever made sunlight in the old 
chateau, she who had occupied so im- 
portant a place in the hearts and 
thoughts of those around her, — had 
she so soon become only it ? 

The priest’s face softened as he looked 
at the young man ; and whatever his 
suspicions had been before, his expres- 
sion now betrayed that he no longer 
doubted the innocence he had so lately 
accused. But he had a purpose to 
serve, when he said sternly, with a 
sudden revulsion of feeling, “ You are a 
good actor, Monsieur le Comte ; you are 
a good actor, but you cannot deceive 
me.” 

“ 0 Heaven ! is it possible that 
you can believe me guilty of such a 
crime,” cried Claude, as he turned from 
the priest, and sprang up the steep 
path impetuously.* “Come with me 
into the presence of the Archdeacon, 
and there accuse me if you dare. I tell 
you I loved her. I have loved her 
always as a sister ; dear little Aim^e, 
she made my life happy. You must be 
mad even to think that I could injure 
her.” 

They had now reached the top of the 
path by which they had descended, and 
the spot where Aim4e had so suddenly 
disappeared. 

“ Look,” cried Claude, as he strained 
his eyes in the distance, — “ look yonder 
on the shore path to St. Ouen; near 
that rock is there not a moving form 
which has just emerged from its shadow, 
and is it not the figure of a woman ? ” 

“ I see nothing,” said the priest, fol- 
lowing his gaze, “ but a fisher-lad 
creeping away toward the town.” 

“ What is more likely,” continued 
Claude, earnestly, “than that she in 
her passion dashed down the path, and 
rushed away to St. Ouen 1 She will 
return when she becomes calmer. Yes, 
I feel she is safe ; I am sure we shall 
see her before the evening is over.” 

This sudden beam of hope was ex- 
tinguished by the priest, who replied, 
firmly and solemnly, “ Young man, do 
not waste your words in the effort to 


deceive me. You know the poor girl 
will never return. Even now her unre- 
sisting body is floating toward the sea 
with the ebbing tide.” 

Claude made no reply, but turned, 
his soul filled with indignation and 
grief, and hurried through the Alice des 
Soupirs toward the chateau, followed 
by Pere Benoit. 

The Archdeacon, with bent head and 
folded arms, was calmly pacing the 
pavement of the portico, when Claude, 
pale and excited, rushed into his pres- 
ence, a few steps in advance of the 
equally excited and pallid priest. 

Fabien paused in his walk, and raised 
his head haughtily to receive the per- 
turbed intruders. But his expression 
of reserve changed instantly to the 
deepest astonishment and horror when 
Claude cried out, “ 0 mon pere I I fear 
Aimee has fallen over the cliff, into the 
river, and is drowned.” 

“ del ! ” exclaimed the Archdeacon, 
forgetting his dignity. “ What do j^ou 
say ? Aim6e fallen into the river ! 
Mother of God ! Where were you, that 
you did not save her 1 ” 

“ Monseigneur, permit me to speak,” 
interrupted Pdre Benoit, stepping hum- 
bly forward. “ This unhappy young 
man tells a sad truth. Mademoiselle 
Aimee has suddenly disappeared over 
the cliff into the river. I heard her 
reproaches and sobs ; I heard her cry 
for help ; and I heard him accuse him- 
self of having caused her death. Mon- 
seigneur, I must speak the truth to you. 
I believe M. le Comte has murdered the 
defenceless girl.” 

“ Liar ! ” shouted Claude, springing 
at the throat of the priest ; but before 
he reached his victim the strong arm 
of the Archdeacon was interposed, and 
his clear, metallic voice smote the ears 
of Pere Benoit like the clash of a sabre. 
“ Are you mad, that you waste time in 
accusing Claude de Clermont of so foul 
a crime 1 ” Claude, for the first time 
in his life, felt like blessing his guar- 
dian. “ Imbecile ! do you not know 
that your idle words may bring terrible 
suffering upon this young man, and 
a fearful punishment upon yourselfl 
Leave your insane suspicions unex- 
pressed, and act, instead of talking ab- 
surdities. Send a man to St. Ouen ; 


38 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


another down the river, to Grand 
Couronne. The tide is ebbing,” he said, 
with sad significance ; “ let some boat- 
men leave Bouille as quickly as possible, 
dragging from there to this point ; and 
send messengers on the swiftest horses, 
up and down on both sides of the 
river.” 

“ I will ride to Bouille, myself,” cried 
Claude, “for I must do something; in- 
action would drive me mad ; and I will 
not return until I have found some 
traces of her.” 

In a few moments every servant 
about the chateau knew that Mademoi- 
selle Aimee had disappeared in a sud- 
den and dreadful manner ; and every 
one was ready to volunteer his services 
in search of her, for, in spite of her 
wayward and passionate nature, she 
had endeared herself to all ; and all, in 
thinking of her, remembered some little 
act of generous kindness and unselfish- 
ness toward them. 

The setvants shook their heads om- 
inously, while they hurried from room 
to room, summoned momently by the 
imperative bell of the Archdeacon. Va- 
rious conjectures and rumors passed 
from one to the other, and dark hints 
against the young Count were already 
whispered in retired comers, for the 
Archdeacon’s valet had overheard the 
accusation of Pere Benoit. 

Among all the domestics at Cler- 
mont there was only one who had en- 
tire confidence in the innocence of his 
master ; for the feeble superstitious 
minds of hirelings and ignorants are so 
formed and held in subjection by the 
superior strength of a powerful intellect, 
that in almost every case, by a sort of 
magnetic influence, they become thor- 
oughly subordinate to its opinion. Al- 
though the Archdeacon had stoutly de- 
fended Claude from the accusation of 
Pk’e Benoit, yet from sundry expres- 
sions he had let fall the servants were 
convinced that it was only an act of 
generosity on the part of Monseigneur, 
and a desire to shield his ward from a 
suspicion so horrible. Therefore, as we 
have said, there was only one who, in 
spite of Fabien’s influence, had entire 
belief in Claude’s innocence ; and that 
was his valet, Tristan, who concealed 
beneath a deformed and sickly body a 


mind of. rare discrimination and intelli- 
gence. This poor young man was some 
years older than Claude, and his father 
had been valet until his death to the 
former Count de Clermont. Since Fa- 
bien’s reign commenced at the chateau, 
gradually and with evidently good rea- 
sons most of the old retainers had been 
dismissed, and new ones had been 
selected by him to fill their places. 
This poor sickly boy would have doubt- 
less shared the fate of the others, if the 
Archdeacon, judging from his vague and 
inane expression, had not believed him 
to be half idiotic and half stupid, and 
therefore harmless. Owing to this con- 
viction and the earnest entreaties of 
Claude, who had a deep affection for 
him, he was allowed to remain. He 
-was a most singular-looking creature, 
having a great head covered with coarse 
shaggy hair, a pale, hollow face, great 
eyes much too far apart, with some- 
thing of the pitiful, imploring expression 
of a dumb animal. Beside he was hunch- 
backed, and all of one side was shorter 
than the other ; from that cause his gait 
was a grotesque limp, and every move- 
ment a sort of double intention. To 
strangers he was simply repulsive. 
Celeste, as gentle as she was, had often 
felt like running away from him, even 
when he brought her messages from 
Claude, and the servants at the chateau 
made him a butt for all their pranks 
and wickednesses. Poor soul ! he never 
complained to his master, but bore their 
buffets with a patience and gentleness 
that was truly touching. His love for 
Aimee was only second to his love for 
Claude ; for the brave, high-spirited girl 
had been his champion in more than 
one encounter with the Archdeacon, in 
which the latter had always come off 
worsted ; and it was woe unutterable to 
an unlucky trickster if she detected him 
at his cruel pastime, for her indignation 
and scorn came upon him like a whirl- 
wind. The only instance in which 
Claude had ever been known to assert 
his authority was to protect his unfortu- 
nate favorite from the aggressive treat- 
ment of Fabien and his minions. He 
had seen those patient eyes watching 
him from childhood with a fidelity as 
beautiful as it is rare, and he had be- 
come so accustomed to his uncouth 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


39 


form, his halting gait, and his haggard 
face, that if any one had said so him, 
“ Tristan is hideous,” he would have re- 
plied truthfully, “ To me he is uot even 
ugly.” 

On this night, while the servants were 
discussing their young master,, the 
hunchback stood silent and apart, his 
short and his long arm folded, his head, 
as usual, lopped on the lower shoulder, 
and his great eyes fixed with a melan- 
choly surprise on the knot of gossips. 
No one seemed to notice him, until- a 
maid with a kinder heart than the oth- 
ers exclaimed, as she glanced toward him, 
“ Look, the hunchback is weeping.” It 
was true, the great tears were slowly 
rolling down the thin cheeks, and yet he 
seemed unconscious that he wept until 
a shout of derision made him suddenly 
aware of it. Then he quickly wiped away 
the tears with the back of his long lean 
hand, and turning silently he hobbled 
away with one reproachful look at his 
tormentors. 

Before a half-hour had passed the last 
messenger had ridden off on his gloomy 
errand, the sounds of hurrying feet and 
excited voices ceased, and silence reigned 
over the house. 

In the study sat the Archdeacon and 
Pere Benoit; neither had spoken for 
some time. Fabien’s face was buried in 
his hands ; outwardly he seemed calm, 
but the convulsive pressure of his 
strong fingers into his forehead, and the 
shiver that now and then shook him, 
betrayed a terrible emotion that he 
with difficulty suppressed. The priest’s 
face was haggard and stony, his sunken 
eyes were fixed on the face of the clock 
as it told the slow hours, his chest rose 
and fell with his labored breathing, and 
the great drops of sweat gathered and 
rolled down his hollow cheeks, while 
from time to time he wrung his 
hands in anguish and moaned, “ Oh ! 
oh ! oh ! ” 

When the bell in the turret of the 
chapel sounded the hour of midnight, 
it seemed to arouse the Archdeacon 
from his stupor, for he raised his head 
and fixed his red swollen eyes on the 
face of P^re Benoit, saying inr a low 
voice, “ Midnight, and no tidings yet. 
Mon Dieu ! how slowly time drags when 
one waits in agony. God grant that I 


may know the worst soon ; this suspense 
is insupportable.” 

“ You will never know more than you 
know now,” said P^re Benoit ; “ long 
before they commenced their search, her 
body had floated with the ebbing tide 
far below Bouille.” 

“ Stop your ominous croaking,” cried 
Fabien, angrily; “how can you know 
whether she will be found or not 1 She 
may even now be living. You do not 
know the girl as well as I do. In a 
sudden access of passion, she is capable 
of doing anything to alarm those who 
love her; perhaps to-morrow she will 
repent and return.” 

“ She will never return,” replied the 
priest, solemnly. 

The Archdeacon’s heart sank, for he 
remembered the last interview in the 
library, and the strange manner of 
Aim6e, which showed she was laboring 
under no ordinary excitement. 

“ Tell me all you know of this, and 
what reasons you have for your suspi- 
cions,” he said at length. 

Then the priest recounted minutely 
the scene between Claude and Aim6e 
as far as he had heard; for although 
he was hidden in a hedge near them, 
every word had not reached his ear, 
and, owing to the intervening trees, he 
had seen nothing. When he repeated 
the passionate words the girl had ad- 
dressed to her companion, Fabien trem- 
bled visibly, but he did not interrupt 
the narrator until he said, “ How can 
you doubt that M. le Comte caused 
her death 1 ” 

Fabien folded his arms on the table, 
and leaning forward he looked with a 
strange expression into the face of the 
priest and said, “ Indirectly, perhaps.” 

“ Indirectly,” repeated P^re Benoit 
sharply. “ Is it then any less a mur- 
der 1” 

“ There is no doubt,” continued the 
Archdeacon, -without noticing the ques- 
tion, — “ there is no doubt in my mind 
as to his having trifled with the poor 
child, and then .driven her to desper- 
ation by his professed love for Madem- 
oiselle Monthelon. But the accusation 
you make is a grave one, and unless it 
can be proved had better never be ad- 
vanced. Hints do no harm, but an 
open avowal of your opinion may lead 


40 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


to serious results. I for many reasons 
must defend the Count of Clermont 
from this charge ; he is my ward, my 
pupil, and the world would not think 
well of me if I should abandon him in 
the hour of trouble. No, whatever 
comes of this, I must defend him. It 
is true I have sworn to be instrumental 
in visiting the sins of the father upon 
the child. I have sworn to be revenged 
for a greater wrong than any you have 
suffered, and yet openly I must do noth- 
ing ; but you need have no scruples, 
only be judicious.” 

“t/e comprends^'' replied the priest, 
while something like exultation spar- 
kled in his heavy eyes.; “ now is our 
time to crush the viper.” 

“ The Devil sometimes gives oppor- 
tunities to saints. This dreadful event 
may be the means of our doing some- 
thing for the Church,” said the Arch- 
deacon with bitter irony, for he did not 
think it necessary to wear his mask 
closely in the presence of one who knew 
too well what it concealed. 

“ I care not for the Church, if I can 
but accomplish my revenge at last,” 
said Pere Benoit fiercely. “ If I could 
but see a Count of Clermont condemned 
as a criminal, whether guilty or inno- 
cent, only condemned and punished, 
my aim would be completed, and I 
should feel that I had not plotted and 
suftered in vain.” 

“You may not live to see him con- 
demned by the laws of his country ; 
there is no proof, and there never will 
be, I fear, but even less is enough for 
our purpose,” replied Fabien calmly; 
“his disgi’ace and ruin can be accom- 
plished easily, by taking advantage of 
this sad event to further our plans.” 

The hours wore on, the clock tolled 
one, two, three ; still these two men, 
under the shadow of night, and under 
the shadow of an awful calamity, plotted 
the ruin of the unhappy young man 
who, with weary body, aching heart, and 
burning brain, hastened back to Cler- 
mont to relieve their prolonged vigil. 

The dawn trembling to daylight 
forced itself into the study, putting to 
shame the sickly flame of the lamp, 
that only half illuminated the weird 
surroundings and the sinister faces of 
the two priests, when Claude, followed 


by a troop of pale, anxious servants, 
entered the room. 

Both men sprang simultaneously to 
their feet, their questions in their eyes, 
for their blanched lips refused to utter 
a word. 

“ This is all we have found,” gasped 
Claude, as he came forward and laid 
upon the table the scarlet scarf, now 
drenched and soiled, that Aimee had 
worn around her neck. “ This is all. 
We found it two miles below, attached 
to a piece of drift-wood in the middle 
of the river.” Then his strength and 
calmness giving way, he sank into a 
chair and burst into sobs. 


PART ELEVENTH. 

THE PLOT MATURES. 

From the moment on that terrible 
night when Claude returned with the 
scarlet scarf that Aim4e had worn the 
last time she was seen, suspicion became 
confirmation in the minds of all. None 
now doubted that she had thrown her- 
self, or had fallen accidentally, or had 
been pushed from the precipice into the 
Seine. Some were of one opinion, some 
of another, but the greater part, no 
slower than the rest of humanity to be- 
lieve the worst of their fellow-creatures, 
entertained the latter. So it is not 
difficult to conceive that, as Claude was 
last seen in her company, he was the 
one accused by others, as well as by P^re 
Benoit. For many days after she dis- 
appeared the servants of Clermont and 
the boatmen on the river continued 
their search for the body of the un- 
fortunate girl. But whether it had 
drifted down with the ebbing tide, and 
so was lost in the depths of the unex- 
plored sea, or whether it had lodged 
among the debris in the bottom of the 
river, none could tell, and none could 
ever know until God in his justice 
revealed it. 

During the time the search was con- 
tinued, the Archdeacon seemed pos- 
sessed with a spirit of restlessness. Day 
and night he wandered about, up and 
down the river, over the park, and 
through the All^e des Soupirs, to the 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


41 


cliff where she was last seen ; there he 
would stand for hours leaning over the 
precipice, gazing down into the depths 
of the river, as though he could see far 
below the tangled rubbish and slimy 
stones that lined its bed. When night 
obscured all objects save the light from 
the lanterns of the boatmen, gleaming 
here and there mysteriously on the riv- 
er’s dark surface, as they continued their 
melancholy task, he would return hag- 
gard and silent to the chateau and en- 
ter his study alone. Sometimes Claude, 
wishing for a word of comfort, would 
seek him there late in the night ; but 
the suppressed sound of sobs and moans 
would arrest him on the threshold, and 
send him back shivering to his room. 

Pere Benoit seemed to have deserted 
them, for, the morning after the first 
night of the search, he had left the 
chateau, and had not since reappeared, 
although Tristan told his young master 
that he had seen the priest in the town, 
surrounded by a crowd of common peo- 
ple to whom he was recounting the 
mysterious disappearance of Aim^e, with 
many dark threats against Claude, who, 
he hinted, was her seducer and murderer. 

‘‘0, he is mad ! ” cried Claude with 
the deepest indignation, when Tristan 
had concluded his story. 

“Yes, that may be. Monsieur le 
Comte,” replied the hunchback, with 
anxiety in his voice ; “ I always thought 
there was something strange in the 
manner of P^re Benoit ; in fact, none of 
us think him anything but an impostor 
who has deceived the kind heart of 
Monseigneur the Archdeacon. But im- 
postor or mad, whichever he may be, he 
should not be allowed to spread such a 
shameful story through the town.” 

“ What difference 1 ” said Claude, care- 
lessly, although he looked distressed. 
“No one will believe the words of a 
lunatic. The people must know me 
incapable of such a crime.” 

The faithful servant hesitated a little, 
seeing his young master s troubled face, 
on which there was such a shadow of 
sorrow that it pained him to tell him 
all he had heard. 

“ Go on,” said Claude, noticing his 
reluctance. Did they appear to be- 
lieve him ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, the canaille always 


believe the worst. Shouts and cries of 
indignation arose from the whole crowd, 
and they declared that, although you 
were a count, you should be punished 
in the same way as was Pierre Garnet, 
who last year killed his mistress in a fit 
of jealousy. Do you remember the ter- 
rible manner in which they put him to 
death % ” 

Claude turned pale ; yes, he remem- 
bered too well how they dragged the 
poor wretch from his hiding-place and, 
after inflicting every possible torture 
upon him, hung him to a branch of a 
tree, from which they did not allow the 
body to be taken until it was a sight 
too loathsome to behold. 

“ 0 my God 1 you do not tell me they 
spoke of such a deed,” cried the unhappy 
young man. “ Am I not then wretched 
enough, that this horror must be added 
to my other suffering 1 ” 

“ I tried to speak to the crowd, mon- 
sieur ; I tried to tell them that you were 
innocent, and that the priest was mad ; 
but they would not listen to me, they 
called me a hunchbacked knave, said I 
was in league with you, and began to 
pelt me with stones, sticks, and garbage 
of all sorts, until I was obliged to take 
refuge in the shop of Mathieu the tailor.” 

“ Kind soul ! ” said Claude, looking at 
Tristan with pitying affection. “You 
must not endanger yourself again to 
defend me. Have you told the Arch- 
deacon of this ? ” 

“ No, monsieur, I have not told him, 
but I think he knows of it from his valet, 
who was with me at the time, and he 
said that I was a booby to interfere 
with the mob, as they nearly always 
had the right on their side. 0 mon- 
sieur, the valet Andr6 is a traitor to you, 
and false to Monseigneur the Archdea- 
con ! for I am sure he and the priest 
joined with the mob to cry you down.” 

“ It is worse than I thought,” sighed 
the poor young man, “when even the 
servants of my own household turn 
against me. I will go to Father Fabien 
directly, and ask him if some measures 
cannot be taken to silence this mad- 
man.” 

Claude had felt his heart drawn 
toward the Archdeacon ever since the 
night he had defended him so warmly 
from the accusation of P6re Benoit, and 


42 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


so he now sought his presence with the 
conviction that he was truly his friend, 
and would still continue to protect him 
from the persecution of his enemies. 
Fabien listened to him, but seemed to 
think the matter demanded very little 
attention. “ It is servants’ gossip,” he 
said, “ and the best way to silence it is 
to take no notice of it.” Still his man- 
ner did not reassure Claude. There was 
something of suspicion and doubt in 
the Archdeacon’s regard that chilled 
him and made him tremble more than 
Tristan’s story had done. 

“ 0 Heaven ! ” he thought, “ if he 
too should believe me guilty and aban- 
don me, the fate of poor Pierre Garnet 
may indeed be mine.” Determined to 
know the worst at once, he summoned 
all his resolution and courage to his aid, 
and raising his head proudly, while the 
light of truth and innocence beamed 
from his clear eyes, he said in a firm 
but very gentle voice, “Father Fabien, 
have you entire confidence in me, and 
do you believe me incapable of the 
crime they accuse me of 1 ” 

The Archdeacon returned Claude’s 
steady gaze with one of well-simulated 
sorrow, and replied sadly, “My poor 
boy, I pity you ! God knows I pity you ! 
and I will never desert you. Your 
father, on his death-bed, left you to me 
as a most solemn trust, and I will be 
faithful to that trust. Whatever I may 
believe respecting this dreadful calamity 
will remain close locked in my own 
heart, and none shall ever know it. Be- 
fore the world I shall defend you, and 
strive to prove your innocence, although 
I fear you are guilty. But as I have 
pledged myself, I will never desert you.” 

Claude clasped his hands to his head 
and uttered a sharp cry : “ This is 
terrible ! And Celeste, does she also 
believe me guilty 1 ” 

“ She does, and her heart is wellnigh 
broken.” 

“ I will see her, if it costs me my life, 
and declare my innocence to her ; and 
then, if she believes me guilty, I shall 
doubt the justice of God.” 

“ Rash young man ! ” said Fabien 
coldly, “ she will not see you, and you 
cannot force yourself into her pres- 
ence.” 

“ I will see her, and nothing shall pre- 


vent me,” cried Claude, as he rushed, 
half frenzied, from the room. 

When he reached the door of the 
Chateau Monthelon, he was met by the 
portier, who looked at him with stupid 
astonishment, retreating as Claude ad- 
vanced, like one who feared to be in- 
fected by a plague. “ Give this to your 
mistress directly,” he said, holding out 
a card on which he had written a few 
words, imploring Celeste to grant him 
an interview, that he might convince 
her of his innocence. The man did not 
offer to take it, but folded his arms 
and shook his head, saying imperti- 
nently, — he who had been all obsequi- 
ousness before, — “I was ordered not to 
admit Monsieur, neither to take any 
messages from him to Mademoiselle.” 

“Did your mistress give you those 
orders herself?” asked Claude, with a 
sinking heart. 

“No, monsieur. Monseigneur the 
Archdeacon gives me my orders on all 
important matters ; beside, Mademoiselle 
is too ill to see any one.” 

“ 111 ! ” he repeated after the servant, 
— “ ill, too ill to leave her room ? ” 

“No, monsieur. Mademoiselle walks 
about the corridors a half-hour each 
day, and when the weather is fine she 
takes a short turn with Fanchette in 
the summer garden; but she is very 
weak and low, poor young lady ! ” 

Claude sighed heavily as he lingered, 
wishing to ask many questions about 
Celeste, and what hour she was in the 
habit of taking her daily exercise ; but 
he did not mean the servant should 
know he had noticed his remark about 
the “turn in the summer garden,” so 
he only said, “I am sorry, Jacques, 
your mistress is so poorly. You need 
not say to her that I have been here. 

I will wait until she is better.” 

Jacques let him out a little more re- 
spectfully than he had let him in ; for 
the calm and unconscious bearing of 
the young man somewhat disarmed the 
suspicion of the servant, who could not 
believe that a count who had committed 
a crime that places one on a level with 
the lowest could still appear with the 
superior demeanor of a noble and a 
gentleman. 

“It is very strange,” said the old 
man to the other servants, after he had 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


43 


related to them his interview with the 
suspected, — “it is very strange that 
such a good and kind-looking young 
man as Monsieur le Comte should kill a 
girl he always seemed so fond of as he 
did of Mademoiselle Aimee. If he is 
guilty, why don’t he take himself off 
while he has time ] It seerns like in- 
nocence, staying here and braving jus- 
tice. Still there is a mystery, and I am 
certain that Monseigneur suspects him, 
although he says nothing.” 

'■'■Vieux sot ! How do you know Mon- 
seigneur suspects him, if he says noth- 
ing % ” inquired a pert chambermaid, 
who was inclined to take the part of 
the handsome young Count. “ I know 
what I would do if I was Mademoiselle 
Celeste and M. le Comte was my lover. 
I would see him ” — this with a strong 
emphasis on the “ would,” a sharp little 
nod, and a significant snap of her fingers 
in the direction of Clermont — “ in spite 
of Monseigneur’s commands and the old 
priest’s lies ; they are hypocrites, both of 
them, and not half so good as the young 
man they slander, and you are no better, 
et voild tout ! ” 

This energetic tirade finished, Nanon 
tossed her pretty head defiantly, dove 
her hands into the little pockets of her 
tiny apron, and turning her back on old 
Jacques, who entertained the warmest 
admiration for her, left the room amid 
‘a buzz of astonishment. 

“ I believe he is innocent,” said 
Jacques, with conviction, as he pursed 
up his mouth and shrugged his shoulders, 
making a significant grimace in the 
direction of Nanon. “ I think she 
is right ; and I will go and tell her 
so, for I don’t like the little witch to be 
angry with me.” So, crossing his arms 
under the tails of his green coat, he 
walked off after the indignant maid. 

Claude loitered down the avenue that 
led to the summer garden where Mad- 
emoiselle Monthelon was in the habit of 
walking with Fanchette. He knew it 
was a favorite spot, and, if she left the 
chateau, she would certainly come there 
to enjoy the beauty and fragrance of 
the flowers, now in their most luxuriant 
bloom. There was a little arbor cov- 
ered with clematis and Fontenay roses, 
where they had often hidden during 
their childish games, and where, not 


many days before, he had whispered to 
Celeste the story that is always new, 
and that never becomes tame from 
repetition. How many times Aimee’s 
clear laugh had discovered her to him, 
after he had searched throughout the 
grounds in vain, and her white hands 
and sparkling eyes had flashed through 
the curtain of leaves an eager welcome. 
Now the place was silent and deserted ; 
a solitary bird twittered, he thought, 
mournfully ; and the withered rose- 
leaves were scattered everywhere. In 
that moment he thought more of the 
departed Aim4e than of the living 
Celeste ; and sinking into a seat, he 
said, between his sobs, “ 0 ma hien 
cherie ! You will come here no more. 
I shall never again look upon your dear 
face. You are gone from my life forever. 
Alas ! I feel the truth in all its bitter- 
ness. I would give half of my future to 
see you sitting here as I have seen you 
so many times ; but no desire nor sacri- 
fice can bring you back to me, you are 
gone as suddenly as a rainbow fades 
from the heavens, or the sunlight from 
the waves of the sea. There is no trace 
of you here. I cannot see your face in 
the heart of the rose, nor hear your 
voice in the murmuring of its leaves. 
The sunlight mocks me, for it will not 
drive away the shadow that rests upon 
me. Neither will it reveal the mystery 
of your death. Light and darkness are 
alike, for all is changed suddenly, — 
so suddenly that I am blinded and stu- 
pefied by the shock. Aim4e dead, and 
Celeste worse than dead, if she believes 
me guilty of the crime imputed to me. 
What greater misfortunes can come upon 
mel” 

He arose, and paced back and forth 
for some time, trying to compose and 
arrange his thoughts ; but he could 
understand nothing clearly, only that 
his need to see Celeste was imperative. 
“ I feel I must see her or die,” he said 
to himself. “I must speak with her, 
and God grant that she may listen to 
me and believe me ! I shall remain 
here until she comes ; it does not matter 
how long, but here I remain until I 
have spoken with her.” He threw him- 
self again upon the rustic seat. Weak- 
ened by his emotions and anxiety, his 
head fell upon his breast, and he sank 


44 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


into a sort of stupor, in which his life 
seemed to pass before him : first a pan- 
orama of placid scenes, with blue skies, 
pastoral valleys, and sunny slopes ; 
then all changed, and to these gentle 
pictures succeeded lurid and wind- 
tossed clouds, swollen streams, and vol- 
canic heights. Aim4e seemed to pass 
before him with passion and anguish 
imprinted on every feature ; and then 
again, haggard, and drenched with the 
sea, a wave cast her at his feet. Ce- 
leste, pallid and worn with son’ow, ap- 
peared to wring her hands and implore 
him to leave her; while Fabien and 
Pere Benoit thundered in his ears, 
“ These are your victims.” His soul 
was in a tumult of agony, and his sick 
fancy distorted and exaggerated his 
misfortune until it seemed as though 
madness or death must soon end it. 

Nothing wounds us like injustice 
from those we love. We feel that they 
should believe us incapable of wrong, 
even if the darkest suspicion rests upon 
us. We are slow to allow that they 
have shared our lives and thoughts, our 
closest companionship, in vain ; that we 
have opened out to them the tablets of 
our heart, which has been but a blank 
if they have not understood the char- 
acters thereon better than those to 
whom we have closed them. 

To Claude it was the most insup- 
portable grief of all, that Celeste should 
believe him guilty. He thought of the 
words of the priest as the words of a 
madman, of the Archdeacon’s suspicion 
only as the injustice of dislike and 
enmity ; but Celeste, she who had given 
him her love, and promised to share his 
life, how could she condemn him un- 
heard? The more he pondered over 
these terrible complications, the more 
certain he felt that there was some plot 
in progress to separate them, and that 
his guardian and P^re Benoit were at 
the bottom of it. “ If I could but cir- 
cumvent them,” he thought, ‘‘ if I were 
but of age and free from the hateful 
control of the Archdeacon, I might find 
justice ; but as it is I am entangled in 
a net from which I cannot free myself. 
0, why did my father leave me in the 
power of such a dangerous man ! ” 

So absorbed was Claude in his painful 
thoughts, that he had forgotten where 


he was and the object for which he was 
there, until a rustling of the leaves and 
a sweet plaintive voice aroused him. 

Fanchette, are not the roses falling 
early this year ? ” 

Many of us can feel the simple 
pathos of the question, for there are 
years in most lives when the roses seem 
to fall early. But they smote the 
heart of Claude with a sudden pain, and 
the hot tears started to his eyes as he 
parted the vines and looked out on the 
path down which they came. 

Celeste in purest white, and her love- 
ly face and hands as white as her dress, 
leaned upon the strong arm of Fan- 
chette, while her soft eyes rested sadly 
on the fallen rose-leaves that strewed 
the path. 

“ I thought his love would have out- 
lasted the roses,” she said as she gath- 
ered with her transparent hand a fair 
bud and looked at it sorrowfully ; “ but 
it died first, Fanchette, it died first.” 

“ 0 my sweet Lily ! cannot you feel 
that my love is not dead ? ” sighed 
Claude, wiping away the tears that 
rolled over his face, and striving to 
calm his emotion before he addressed 
her. 

“ Let us rest in the arbor for a few 
moments; I am so tired, dear Fan- 
chette,” said the plaintive voice again. 

Claude’s heart beat almost audibly 
as their shadows, lengthened by the 
setting sun, entered before them. His 
eyes fell on that of Celeste and fol- 
lowed it along the floor to the hem of 
her w'hite robe, and up the graceful 
figure until they rested, full of love, on 
her sweet face. 

When she saw him she stopped on 
the threshold as suddenly as one ar- 
rested by some vision of horror, her 
eyes dilated with fear, and her hands 
extended as though to ward off his ap- 
proach. 

“Celeste, dearest Celeste,” he cried, 
springing toward her, “ for the love of 
God, listen to me.” 

For only one instant he saw her white, 
terrified face, her outstretched hands ; 
then she uttered a piercing cry of 
fear and anguish, and, turning, fled from 
him as though she were pursued by 
a fiend. 

He did not attempt to follow her. 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


45 


Falling back into a seat like one smitten 
with palsy, he gasped, “ My God, my 
God ! It is true, she too believes me 
guilty. Have pity on me, and save me 
from myself ! ” 


PART TWELFTH. 

JUSTICE MAKES A DEMAND. 

It was night before Claude aroused 
himself from the heavy despair that fell 
upon him when he knew Celeste no 
longer loved him. The time that had 
intervened was a dull blank ; his head 
ached, his heart throbbed to suffocation, 
and his eyes were weighted with unshed 
tears. Every place was alike to him 
now, still he felt he must make an 
effort to return to the chateau, at least 
he wished for the privacy of his own 
room, where he could shut out all but 
his sorrow. He arose, trembling like 
an old man, and tottered down the 
avenue in the direction of the gate 
that opened into the park of Clennont. 
The clock in the chapel tower struck 
the hour of nine. Was it possible so 
long a time had passed in a stupor that 
after all was scarcely suffering but rather 
unconsciousness from the wound he had 
received 1 He felt a dull conviction that 
when he returned to his normal condi- 
tion the hours would leave more pain- 
ful traces, and the moments would be 
marked with still deeper regrets. He 
turned his gaze upward ; the serene face 
of the full moon seemed to look unpity- 
ingly upon him, her white light revealing 
to the thousand eyes of night his haggard 
countenance and unsteady gait. Nature 
reposed in peace, unmindful of the tem- 
pest that shook his soul ; there was no 
sympathy for him either on earth or in 
the heavens. For the first time the 
short distance from the summer garden 
at Monthelon to his own park seemed 
long ; he was surprised that it had not 
seemed so before, when he had crossed 
it with the eager heart and impatient 
desire of happy love. Then his feet 
were winged with hope;' now he stag- 
gered under the burden of a great grief, 
a burden that presses as heavily in 
youth as in age, because we have not 
learned to endure, and our hearts have 


not become callous by the hard rubs of 
time. The pitiless strokes of misfortune 
had fallen with terrible force upon him, 
but he did not feel the sharpness of the 
lash because of the numbness produced 
by the blows. Mercifully God has made 
this provision ; to save us from sudden 
madness he blunts our sensibilities and 
leaves us time to recover our strength 
before we feel the keenest edge of the 
spear. Even in the moments of his 
half-stupor this truth dawned upon the 
mind of Claude, and he repeated to 
himself, “ I shall suffer more to-morrow 
than to-day, and all my future will 
be utterly desolate. What shall I 
do in the long years to cornel Can 
life be endured without hope ? Can one 
live when he has lost all ? or are we like 
saplings that can be torn up, planted 
anew, and still flourish 1 ” His undis- 
ciplined, immature nature did not look 
beyond at the noble possibilities the fu- 
ture still had for him. He was no phi- 
losopher, no stoic, only a warm-hearted 
boy, who had been until now as wax in 
the hands of a cunning moulder. But 
the rocks must be smitten before the 
waters can flow, the earth rent asunder 
before her treasures are found, the 
worthless tree bent, pruned, and grafted 
before it can bear good fruit. And, 
after all, the test of a kingly nature is 
its capability of wearing a crown of sor- 
row for its own perfecting. 

There was an element in the charac- 
ter of Claude that none had discovered, 
because the circumstances to develop it 
had never occurred. But now the mo- 
ment had come when the indolent, 
gentle soul must sink under its accumu- 
lated misfortune, or call into being the 
latent power within itself. Great needs 
sometimes produce almost superhuman 
strength, and in his case this was emi- 
nently true. 

There was a narrow shaded avenue 
that led from the gate across the park 
and garden to the chateau. The Arch- 
deacon always preferred this walk when 
he made his visits to Monthelon, be- 
cause it was shorter, more retired, and 
more free from observation than any 
other. Sometimes he walked there for 
hours alone, and it was there he 
frequently met Pere Benoit for private 
consultations, especially when they did 


46 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


not wish to be seen in each other’s com- 
pany. For very obvious reasons the 
priest could not continue his visits to 
the chateau, after his apparent dis- 
agreement with the Archdeacon in re- 
gard to Claude ; so when they had any- 
thing important to communicate to each 
other, they met by appointment in this 
walk. 

When Claude wearily opened the gate 
and his indifferent eyes scanned the 
avenue, its length of shade broken by 
flickering moonbeams that fell through 
the tangled branches, how great was his 
surprise to see, a few feet in advance of 
him, two persons in earnest but sub- 
dued conversation. As he approached 
nearer he recognized in one the Arch- 
deacon, and at the same moment his 
low but firm voice fell distinctly on his 
ear : “Do not carry your revenge too 
far, he will demand justice; nothing 
can be proved, he will be acquitted, 
and your labor will be lost.” 

The reply of the other Claude did not 
hear distinctly, yet he was assured that 
the voice was that of P^re Benoit, al- 
though he wore the slouched hat and 
coarse blouse of a peasant. Fabien, 
as if startled by Claude’s footsteps, 
glanced around, and, seeing they were 
observed, said a few hasty words to his 
companion ; then they separated and 
glided like dark shadows into opposite 
paths. 

“I have discovered them plotting,” 
thought Claude, almost indifferently. 
“ And the priest disguised ; what can it 
mean ? But it does not matter ; let them 
do their worst, everything is alike to 
me now.” 

He reached, without any further ad- 
venture, the silence of his room, and 
throwing himself on a sofa relapsed 
again into sad thought. A hurried tap 
on the door aroused him, and he said 
almost savagely, “ Who comes here to 
disturb me ” Then he added in a more 
gentle tone, as the door opened, “ 0, it 
is you, Tristan ; come in.” 

The hunchback stumbled across the 
floor, and, falling on his knees, took 
his master’s hand and pressed it to his 
heart, to show him how heavily it 
throbbed, while he said in eager, excited 
tones, “ I have run all the way from the 
town. Feel how my heart beats, and it 


is for you, only for you, it throbs. It 
never stirred for another. It was dead 
and silent until you spoke to it. It 
loves you and it will save you. They 
all believe you guilty, all, even the 
Archdeacon. The people in the town, 
set on by P^re Benoit, are thirsting for 
vengeance. They will come here to- 
night and tear you from your bed and 
murder you before my eyes. I have 
been in the town, I have appeared to 
join with them, and I have learned their 
plans. They have been to the Maire 
and demanded your arrest, and he has 
refused them, because, he says, there is 
no evidence that a murder has been com- 
mitted, or even that the girl is dead. But 
that did not calm them. They believe 
she is drowned, and that you threw her 
over the precipice to be rid of her, that 
you might marry Mademoiselle Monthe- 
lon. And they are determined to have 
your life. They will be here to-night. 
They may come any moment, and then 
it will be impossible to save you. Fly 
now, while there is time, and take me with 
you, monsieur. You will need me, you 
cannot do without me.” This he added 
with the simplicity of a child who be- 
lieves itself necessary to those who love 
it, while he raised his eyes in earnest 
entreaty to his master’s face. 

Claude had started from his recum- 
bent position when Tristan began to 
speak, but he showed neither anxiety 
nor fear as he laid his hand on the 
hunchback’s head, and said calmly, 
“My poor boy, you alarm yourself 
needlessly. The people will not come 
here ; they are excited and threaten 
what they will not dare to do ; and even 
if they should I am prepared for them. 
Neither the fear of death nor the sting 
of injustice has power to make me for- 
get for a moment a calamity that has 
fallen upon me heavier and more terri- 
ble than either. Indifterence robs the 
most painful death of terror ; and when 
we desire it we care not how it comes, 
so that it comes and conducts us to 
peace. My poor friend, do not weep,” 
added Claude, after a moment’s silence, 
broken only by the, sobs of Tristan. 
“Your affection soothes a little my ach- 
ing heart. I am thankful that one has 
remained faithful to me. I shall not 
fly like a coward. If torture and death 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


47 


come, I am innocent, and I shall meet 
it with a serene heart. Stay by me, my 
boy, until the last, and I will show you 
that a Count of Clermont is not afraid 
to die.” 

Tristan clasped his master’s hand, 
and laid his tear- wet face against it, and 
Claude bent his head until his cheek 
rested on the shoulder of his faithful 
servant. For a few moments they re- 
mained silent, then the hunchback 
started up, and a sudden terror came 
into his eyes as he cried, “They are 
coming. I hear them. I hear their 
shouts and cries. They are even now 
within the park. 0 my master, fly, for the 
love of God ! fly, while there is time ! ” 
“ No,” replied Claude firmly, but with 
blanched face, “I am innocent, and I 
shall remain here.” 

His room was in the right wing of the 
chateau, and as he spoke he threw open 
the door and hurried down a corridor 
that led to a gallery overlooking the 
main entrance. 

It vfas true they had come, as Tristan 
had predicted. The broad avenue be- 
fore the entrance of the court was filled 
with a turbulent, drunken mob of men, 
women, and children, shouting and 
screaming every opprobrious term of 
their vulgar vocabulary. “ Where is 
the young ruffian, the coward, the se- 
ducer, the assassin ? Where is he 1 
Bring him out, or we will drag him out, 
the miserable poltroon ! ” 

“ Down with the nobility ! ” cried the 
shrill voice of an old woman. “ Because 
he is a noble, he thinks to make a for- 
tress of his chateau, and drive us off* 
with his dogs of lackeys.” 

“ He is no better than Pierre Gar- 
net,” shouted a hoarse voice. “We 
strung him up to a tree, and we will 
serve Monsieur le Comte the same. 
What could be better than one of his 
own trees for a gallows, and his own 
park for his place of execution ? ” 
“Hang him over the precipice, head 
downward, on the spot where he pushed 
the poor girl off,” piped out a wizened 
old wretch. 

“Yes, yes, the cliff*, the cliff, that is 
the place for him ! ” 

“ Bring him out, bring him out ! ” 
yelled a chorus of voices in every tone 
of the gamut. 


At the approach of the mob every 
door and window had been closed and 
barred, and every light had suddenly 
disappeared. Along the whole length 
the fa 9 ade of the chateau now presented 
the dark and forbidding front of a prison. 
When they saw this, and that there were 
no other means of effecting an entrance 
than by force, they rushed furiously for- 
ward, shouting, “ Down with the doors ! 
Down with the barricades ! ” 

“ We will tear the young whelp from 
his den. We will show the nobles that 
the people can take justice into their 
own hands.” 

“ Out with him ! Down with the 
doors ! He is there, he entered not an 
hour ago.” 

“ Ruffian ! Assassin ! Coward ! He 
will not show his face. We must break 
down the doors and drag him out,” cried 
the leader, suddenly turning round on 
the advancing mob, and showing a pair 
of haggard, bloodshot eyes under a 
slouched hat. 

AllonSy, mes enfants. Down with 
the doors.” 

“ Nom de Dieu ! where is your cour- 
age 'i Down with the doors, I tell you,” 
shouted the leader again. 

“Yes, down with the doors ! ” echoed 
the chorus of demons, as they rushed 
upon the massive porte with stones and 
clubs. 

At that moment a young voice above 
them, clear and thrilling as a trumpet, 
shouted : “ Here I am, my friends, 

spare the door. I will come down to 
you, and give myself into your hands. 
I am innocent, and I am not afraid.” 

The voice acted like magic. Every 
eye looked upward, and every hand with 
its weapon fell as though it were power- 
less. There was an appeal in the slight, 
youthful figure, the pale, beautiful face 
and heroic attitude, that might have 
touched the better nature of some 
among the furious mob, if their reason 
had not been entirely under the influ- 
ence of strong drink, and that most un- 
reasonable of all passions, revenge. As 
it was, only for a moment they looked 
upward, silent from surprise. Then 
their leader cried out, with a voice that 
aroused the worst desires in their hearts, 
“ Cowards ! You are afraid of a boy ! 
Stand back, all of you, and I will enter 


48 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


alone. I will avenge the poor girl he 
has so foully murdered. He is a noble, 
and you fear to touch him. Cowards ! 
Slaves ! Stand back, and may the 
daughters of every father among you 
meet with the same fate as the unfor- 
tunate he ruined.” 

When the speaker’s white lips closed 
on the last word, there arose a yell from 
the crowd, and simultaneously a shower 
of stones, sticks, and dirt hid the white 
face on the balcony from the assailants. 

Before the cloud of projectiles had 
fallen, a strong hand grasped Claude 
almost savagely, and threw him within 
the corridor, closing the door and keep- 
ing it closed with one firm hand, while 
he held the other extended as if in ben- 
ediction over the crowd below. It was 
the Archdeacon ; his face was calm, but 
his eyes gleamed like fire, and drops of 
sweat stood on his forehead. “ My 
children ! my children ! ” he cried in a 
voice of strong entreaty, “ listen to me. 
Calm yourselves, and listen to me. Do 
not commit a crime that will stain your 
souls forever. What right have you to 
take vengeance into your own hands 1 
The unhappy young man has never 
wronged you nor injured you individu- 
ally, and that he has committed the 
crime you accuse him of is in no man- 
ner proven. If he is guilty, leave him 
to the laws of your country and the 
mercy of God. Go to your homes like 
peaceable citizens, and learn there that 
it is more noble to forgive than to 
avenge.” 

What good effect the words of Fabien 
might have had on the mob we cannot 
determine, for at . the moment when all 
were debating interiorly whether this 
was an access of Christian generosity and 
tenderness on the part of the good Arch- 
deacon, or a desire to shield his ward, 
whose innocence he did not assert, there 
was a great noise at the door against 
which they were pressing, a drawing of 
bolts, a falling of bars, and the ponderous 
•porte was dashed back on its hinges by 
an impatient hand. There, on his own 
threshold, face to face with the haggard 
leader and his bloodthirsty followers, 
stood Claude de Clermont, calm and 
fearless, armed only with courage and 
innocence. It was an act that has 
found no record in the history of heroic 


deeds, and yet the white-faced moon 
that hung over Clermont has seldom 
witnessed a more resolute and daunt- 
less courage than his as he stood in the 
presence of a terrible death. Before 
him gleaming eyes, cruel faces, and 
eager hands, behind him the silent 
deserted court, above him the priest 
imploring them to pity and mercy. He 
raised his eyes to God in fervent suppli- 
cation for himself, for Celeste. In that 
supreme moment his thoughts turned 
to her, and he wondered how she would 
listen to the story of his terrible fate. 

When Claude thus suddenly and un- 
expectedly appeared before the turbu- 
lent mob, they stood silent and made 
no effort to reach him, now he was with- 
in their very reach. They had clamored 
for him, they had demanded him, and 
now he had given himself into their 
hands, yet they did not seize him. 
There was something in his face that re- 
pelled their brutality, and no one dared 
to be the first to touch him. The 
leader now seemed more backward than 
the others, for he withdrew some paces, 
and fixed his eyes on the face of Claude, 
while the crowd awaited the result of 
his inspection. 

Suddenly a fiendish glare came into 
his eyes, and as a tiger springs upon 
his prey the man sprang at the throat 
of his victim. 

In the brief moment of consciousness 
that followed, Claude recognized under 
the slouched hat the haggard face of 
Pere Benoit. Then his sight grew dim, 
his breath came in gasps, and he fell 
heavily on the stone pavement of the 
court, wdth the priest’s hands still clutch- 
ing his throat, and his wild eyes glaring 
hate into his. 

When the leader of the mob sprang 
at Claude, the Archdeacon saw that 
something of greater importance had 
occurred below than the speech he was 
delivering above, and divining that the 
rash young man had placed himself 
again in jeopardy, he rushed down the 
stairs toward the entrance of the court, 
followed by the terrified servants. 

The bloodthirsty ruffians, eager to 
be in at the death, pressed forward into 
the small quadrangle, where the priest 
was struggling with his victim, uncon- 
scious of the sound of horse’s feet clat- 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


49 


tering up the avenue, caused by the 
opportune arrival of fifty mounted gen- 
darmes, followed by the breathless Tris- 
tan, who had run, tumbled, and rolled 
all the way to the Caserne and back, 
arriving at the same time with the 
officers. 

Never were ffimished and entrapped 
wolves captured more easily than the 
surprised mob, who were surrounded 
without a chance of escape or defence. 
In the consternation they forgot their 
victim, all excepting the murderer, who 
was intent on his work of vengeance, 
which he would have accomplished in a 
moment more, had not a well-directed 
blow, from one of the ruffian’s clubs, in 
the hands of Tristan, felled him to the 
ground. 

Then followed a strange scene. While 
the poor hunchback, almost exhausted 
from his efforts, raised and carried away 
the unconscious form of his master, the 
Archdeacon glided from behind a pillar, 
and, taking up the lifeless body of Pere 
Benoit as though it had been a child, he 
carried it through a small side door into 
the chapel. 

When the officers reached the prison 
with their prisoners, they found the 
leader was not among them, and every 
effort to discover him was useless. 

An hour before the dawn of the next 
day a carriage rolled out of the north 
gate of Clermont and turned toward the 
sea. In it reclined the half-unconscious 
Claude, his head resting on the shoulder 
of Tristan, and his cold hands clasped 
to the faithful heart that would live 
henceforth only for the beloved life he 
had saved. 

When the servant had wished to 
carry his master to his room, Fabien 
had objected, saying that Claude’s fu- 
ture safety depended on his immediate 
flight. So, weak, powerless, and resist- 
less, he was hurried away from his own 
inheritance, leaving a usurper in his 
place. 

Long after, when the Archdeacon sat 
alone in his study at Clermont, its som- 
bre gloom unlightened, its dreary silence 
unbroken, he thought of the fresh 
young voices that were gone forever, 
and drank with tears the bitter draught 
that so often follows the intoxicating 
cup of gratified desire and ambition. 


PART THIRTEENTH. 

CRUSHING A LILY. 

“ How is my daughter this morn- 
ing 1 ” The voice of the Archdeacon 
was modulated to the most exact tone 
of tender interest, as he took the slen- 
der feverish hand of his ward in his, 
and pressed a paternal kiss upon her 
white forehead. It was the morning after 
her mother’s burial, and some months 
after Claude’s sudden departure from 
Clermont. Celeste was dressed in deep 
mourning, and looked paler and more 
lily-like than ever. When Fabien en- 
tered she was lying on a sofa, a pillow 
under her head, and a tiger-skin over 
her feet, while Fanchette sat by her 
side knitting as usual, only stopping 
occasionally to wet her mistress’s hand- 
kerchief Vvdth eau-de-cologne, or to give 
her a grape from a delicious bunch 
of Muscatels that lay on a silver dish 
near her. She made an effort to rise, 
but the Archdeacon waved her gently 
back to her recumbent position, while 
he took Fanchette’s vacant seat. 

“ Did you rest better last night 1 ” 
he continued in the same bland voice, 
“ or were you troubled again with un- 
pleasant dreams 1 ” 

“ I tell Mademoiselle her bad dreams 
are caused by the fever that comes on 
every night,” interrupted Fanchette, as 
she left the room. 

“ Without doubt,” replied the Arch- 
deacon, laying his finger on the poor 
girl’s wrist. “ There is but little fever 
now, your pulse is almost regular.” 

It passed away with my wretched 
dreams, and when morning comes I 
am so weak and cold.” While she 
spoke she raised her eyes, unnaturally 
large, with a wistful look into the in- 
scrutable face of Fabien. “ Have you 
heard anything from him yet 1 ” she 
said tremblingly, after a little silence, 
while she picked with nervous fingers 
the crape of her black gown. 

“Nothing, my daughter, since some 
time ago, when his effects were sent 
after him to Rennes.” 

“ Oh ! ” she sighed disappointedly, “ I 
hoped you would bring me some- news 
this morning.” 

“Is it not another ' proof of his iin- 
worthiness that he has never written 


50 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


to you since his flight, to endeavor to 
clear himself from the crime imputed 
to him 1 My child, you think too often 
of one who has wronged you deeply, 
and allow your aftections to dwell on a 
sinner, instead of fixing them on Christ, 
who suffered that you might have 
peace.” 

“ 0 my father ! ” moaned the poor 
girl, “ I am so bewildered, so torn to 
pieces with conflicting thoughts. Some- 
times I love liim as I did at first, and 
believe him innocent. Again, I fear 
him and feel confident that he is guilt}^ 
His face haunts me persistently. In 
my sleep I see him as I saw him that 
day in the summer garden, pale and 
suflering, or again he is struggling with 
the mob, wounded, bleeding, dying. If 
I could but know he was alive and safe. 
I fear he is dead, or suffering alone, and 
my heart is breaking because I still 
love him.” Here she burst into sobs 
and wept convulsively for some time, 
repeating over and over, “ 0, if I could 
but forget his imploring face ! ” 

“ My daughter, this grief is unworthy 
of you. Have j^ou no pride, no energy, 
to shake oft* these morbid fancies, which 
are but an attack of nervousness brought 
on by too close attention to your dear 
mother 1 Think more of her and less 
of this unfortunate young man, who has 
plunged us all into sorrow.” 

“ 1 cannot mourn for my mother,” 
replied tlie girl, the tears drying on her 
feverish cheek. “ She has suffered so 
much and so long that death must have 
been most welcome to her. No, I can- 
not weep for her ; she is happy with 
God ; would that I were with her ! I 
am so tired of life. 0 man pere I I am 
so tired.” And she looked appealingly 
at the Archdeacon, as though she 
thought he might direct her into some 
easier and move pleasant path than the 
one she had struggled through during 
the last few months of sorrow. 

Poor Celeste ! there was nothing from 
which she could gather one ray of hope 
or consolation. Since the day when she 
had seen Claude and Aim^e with hands 
clasped bending over the same book 
life had changed to her, all had become 
distorted and unnatural ; one scene of 
.deception and sorrow had followed 
another, iuntil she scarcely knew what 


to believe or what to doubt. For in her 
trouble what was more reasonable than 
that she should listen to and confide 
in her guardian, her confessor, the holy 
man she had reverenced and wor- 
shipped as only a little less than a 
saint, who always met her with such 
gentle sympathy and encouragement '? 
In the beginning he had insinuated his 
falsehoods with such subtle craftiness 
that he had blinded and bewildered the 
poor child until she was incapable of 
judging for herself, even if all had been 
truthfully represented by another. 

In recounting to her the last scene, 
when Claude was attacked by the mob, 
the Archdeacon had carefully omitted 
telling her of her lover’s heroic conduct. 
It would have been a consolation for 
her to have known that he met his 
assailants bravely, and it would have 
shaken her not very firm belief in his 
guilt. But Fabien had represented him 
as a cowardly criminal, seeking safety 
in flight, and even his unfortunate si- 
lence was construed by the plotter into 
another proof of his culpability. 

When Celeste so pathetically ex- 
pressed her weariness of life, the only 
emotion it awoke in the mind of the 
Archdeacon was one of satisfaction. 
She had now reached the point in her 
life’s journey to which he had directed 
her .with the deepest interest and the 
most unceasing care. The Church 
opened her sheltering arms to receive 
the weary child who physically and 
morally was ready to foil into them. 
It was not the fair feeble girl it coveted, 
but her wealth, that with her frail life 
was sure to flow into its golden river. 

The appealing look Celeste directed 
to her spiritual father furnished a ques- 
tion which he was most anxious to 
answer. It was as though she had 
asked, “ Where shall I flee to find 
peace ” And gently bending over her 
he fixed his magnetic eyes upon her, 
and said, softly, “ The Church, my 
daughter, the holy Church offers you 
a i-efuge from the sorrows of life. Turn 
to her ; seek repose within her walls. 
Her doors are open to receive you ; and 
believe mo, my child, the only true 
peace is found with those who enter 
and shut out the world forever.” 

“Is it true, mon psre, that I should 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


51 


find calm and forgetfulness in a con 
vent 1 ” inquired Celeste, with apathy/ 
“If I thought so, although I have 
never felt such an existence to be my 
vocation, yet, so weary am I of the 
world, that I should like to try to find 
peace there.” 

“ Can you doubt the futility of earth- 
ly happiness 1 You have had all, 
wealth, youth, and love, and they have 
only brought you sorrow.” 

“It is true,” she said, musingly, — 
“ it is true ; my youth and wealth 
could not keep his love, and there is 
nothing else in life I value. Why 
should I not hide my ruined, crushed 
heart from the world forever 1 ” A 
slight shiver passed over her as she said 
“ forever.” “ And then,” she added, 
with childlike simplicity, “ I always 
thought a convent such a cold, hungry 
place. But may I have Fanchette with 
me, and a fire in winter 1 And I should 
not like to be obliged to do many 
penances.” 

The Archdeacon assured her that 
every request should be granted that 
did not interfere with the rules of the 
order ; while he, with gentle sophistry, 
led her to fix her wavering heart on the 
Convent of Notre Dame as a place of 
refuge for her weary body and mind 
only a little less desirable than paradise. 
And before he left her he clearly ex- 
torted a promise from her, that, as soon 
as her health was sufficiently established 
to enable her to make the change, she 
would commence her novitiate. 

When Fanchette entered, after the 
Archdeacon left. Celeste threw herself 
on the faithful bosom of her only friend, 
saying between her convulsive sobs, 

“ 0 Fanchette, I have promised, I have 
promised, but already I am sorry. I 
know my heart will break sooner here, 
where I can weep unrestrained ; there 
it will be a long, slow life, that Avill 
feed on suppressed emotion and stifled 
passion.” 

“ What have you promised 1 Where 
are you going, clierie ? ” cried Fanchette, 
looking at her with amazement. 

“ To the Convent of Notre Dame. I 
have promised P^re Fabien to commence 
my novitiate as soon as I am a little 
better.” 

“ To a convent ! ” gasped Fanchette. 


“ 0, my poor, deluded child, you will 
regret it until your death.” 

“Yes, Fanchette, I think I shall ; 
but one regret more or less does not 
matter now. Perhaps our Blessed 
Mother will have pity on me, and grant 
me peace.” 

“ Poor Lily, poor crushed Lily ! ” 
sobbed ‘Fanchette, stroking the soft 
hair with one hand, while she wiped 
away the tears with the other. 

In the audience-room, at the Convent 
of Notre Dame de Rouen, sat Fabien, 
conversing earnestly with the lady su- 
perior, a cunning, sharp-eyed French- 
woman of more than sixty. There was 
a sleek affability in her manner, an 
amiable hypocrisy, if one may use the 
term, a sort of wheedling grace and 
suavity, that would have made her a 
finished coquette if she had not been an 
abbess. At her advanced age she still 
retained enough of power to make her 
a match for Fabien, if one could judge 
from his expression ; for it plainly de- 
noted .that, having argued some point 
long and well, he had not gained much 
vantage-ground, although the lady ab- 
bess appeared to agree with every opin- 
ion he advanced. 

“She has been accustomed to almost 
entire freedom of action from childhood ; 
she is delicate and sensitive, and re- 
(piires the most tender care. I feel the 
necessity of urging this matter. She 
has never been separated from Fan- 
chette since her birth, and I fear she 
will not submit to it without rebelling.” 
The Archdeacon said this with an em- 
phasis that was not to be misunder- 
stood. 

“ I regret,” said the abbess, with a 
most persuasive smile and an upward 
inclination of her eyes, - — ^ “ I regret to 
refuse Monseigneur any request, but the 
rules of our order will not permit the 
woman to enter on any other conditions 
than that of a novice.” 

“ I fear, then, that this wnll dis- 
arrange all our plans. When you have 
studied her as I have, you will under- 
stand that only the most judicious treat- 
ment will bring about the result we 
wish for at the end of her novitiate. 
Take care that by severity you do not 
disgust her with a life she enters upon 
reluctantly.” 


52 


A CEOWN FEOM THE SPEAE. 


“ I understand perfectly, monseign- 
eur,” said the abbess, blandly, — “I 
understand perfectly. Mademoiselle 
Monthelon must be humored ; indulged 
with little titbits ; favored with an 
occasional relaxation in our discipline. 
Leave it to me ; I have had great ex- 
perience in such matters.” 

The Archdeacon bowed deferentially 
as he said, “ I defer, then, to your supe- 
rior wisdom.” 

“But about the settlement, the gift 
as you please to call it. Is she pre- 
pared to sign the papers to-day, mon- 
seigneur ? ” 

“ Quite prepared,” replied the Arch- 
deacon briskly ; “ she is indifferent about 
all worldly interests, and she leaves it 
entirely to me to name the sum.” 

“ Be generous, then, monseigneur, — 
be generous, then,” said the abbess with 
a seductive smile. “ Our holy Church 
needs much for the good work.” 

The Archdeacon arose, and unfolding 
some papers that lay on a table near 
he looked them over a few moments si- 
lently. Then he touched a small silver 
bell and summoned a nun from an ad- 
joining room. 

“ Conduct Mademoiselle Monthelon 
into our presence,” said the abbess 
briefly. 

A moment after, the door opened and 
Celeste entered between two nuns, who 
walked with eyes cast down, and their 
clasped hands concealed within the folds 
of their great sleeves. 

Set off by these grim, gaunt figures 
the graceful girl looked still a lily, but 
a lily drenched with tears and crushed 
by pitiless hands. Her eyes were red 
with weeping, her long fair hair disor- 
dered, and her childish mouth quiver- 
ing with suppressed sobs. She had 
wept herself into apathetic despair, af- 
ter her forced separation from Fan- 
chette, who, she learned at the very last 
moment, could not remain with her. 

When she entered the presence of 
Fabien, she felt like reproaching him 
wuth his broken faith ; but he came for- 
ward to meet her with so much kind- 
ness and such gentle interest that she 
forgave him and felt reassured. 

“ My daughter, are you ready to 
sign the deed of your gift to our holy 
Church ? ” 


' “ Yes, my father,” she replied in a 

low voice, without raising her eyes to 
the face of the abbess, whom she already 
instinctively disliked. 

“ Our Holy Mother will bless you, my 
child, for returning to her Church tho 
treasures she has lent you. Give your 
heart to her as freely as you give of 
your wealth, and you will find exceed- 
ing peace on earth, and a crown of 
joy in heaven. Youth, beauty, and 
wealth are a sacrifice truly acceptable 
to our holy Church, but of how much 
more value is the weary bleeding 
heart you lay at the feet of our com- 
passionate Mother. My child, your 
early renunciation of the follies of the 
world show that you have been chosen 
by our Lord as his bride. What inex- 
pressible honor and happiness to be thus 
distinguished by his Divine favor.” 

Celeste stood during the short ad- 
dress of the abbess, with bent head 
and folded hands. Whether she heard 
and understood it was impossible to de- 
cide, for her face gave no sign of emo- 
tion even when the speaker clasped her 
clawlike hands in ecstasy, and turned 
up her eyes until only the whites were 
visible. 

Fabien tapped the table with his pen, 
and seemed impatient to have the sig- 
nature of Celeste rather than the re- 
marks of the abbess. 

“ Do you wish to read the deed of 
gift, my daughter ^ ” he inquired after 
the abbess and the two nuns had re- 
peated a Deo gratias, and crossed them- 
selves devoutly. 

“No, my father, I have no wish to 
read it. The contents of the paper 
have no interest for me.” She took the 
pen from the fingers of the Archdeacon, 
and with one sweep of her thin Tvhite 
hand signed away to the Convent of 
Notre Dame de Eouen a large portion 
of the wealth her father had toiled for 
years to accumulate. Then she turned 
silently, and making a reverence to the 
abbess and to the Archdeacon she left 
the room as she had entered, walking 
between the two nuns. At the door 
they were met by a tall, noble-looking 
girl, with blue eyes, brown hair, and the 
fresh complexion that denotes English 
blood, who laid her strong wdiite hand on 
the shoulder of Celeste, and said in a 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


53 


clear, frank voice, “I am Elizabeth Court- 
nay, and 1 am to occupy the same dormi- 
tory with you. The abbess wishes us 
to be friends. Shall it be so 1 ” 

The sorrow-stricken girl raised her 
sad eyes to the face that beamed with 
goodness, aud reading there truth and 


sympathy she silently put her hand in 
Elizabeth’s extended palm, and the two 
went away into the shadow of the dimly 
lighted corridor together. 

Thus quietly and sadly the two were 
united, to work out with each other the 
complex problem of life. 


BOOK THIED. 

SARZEAU. 


PART FIRST. 

“the setting of a great hope.” 

“ The settiag of a great hope is like the set- 
ting of the sun. 

I DO not know whether Claude de 
Clermont had ever read these beautiful 
words of our great poet in the intro- 
ductory chapter of Hyperion, but cer- 
tainly it was the same thought that 
filled his heart as he watched the sun 
drop into the sea. He was leaning 
upon a broken rock on the rugged shore 
of Morbilian, his feet braced against 
a pile of driftwood, and his hands hidden 
in the deep pockets of his rough coat. 
On the beach by his side lay his hat, 
with a gun and game-basket, guarded 
by a great shaggy dog, of a breed pecu- 
liar to Brittany. There was something 
in the scene and in the appearance of 
Claude that suggested loneliness and 
isolation. His neglected-looking hair 
w^as longer and less curling than that 
of the boy who brushed his glossy locks 
to please the Lily of Montheloii. A lux- 
uriant dark beard covered the lower 
part of his face, and a heavy mustache 
with a melancholy droop shaded his 
mouth. His forehead was almost as 
white as when Aimee had compared it 
to a rose-leaf ; but a few faint lines 
between the brows made it less smooth. 
His eyes were sunken, aud seemed 
darker from the heavy shadows beneath 
them ; and his straight nose had a little 
of the pinched look that all noses have 
whose owners have suffered, while the 
lines from the nostrils to the mouth 


were a little deeper than they should 
have been in one so young. Outwardly, 
these were all the changes that five 
years had wrought in Claude de Cler- 
mont. Yet ten or even twenty years 
have passed over some and left fewer 
traces. There was strength and deter- 
mination in his attitude, and calm res- 
ignation ill his face. Even though his 
hopes had set as suddenly as the golden 
god had sunk into the sea, extinguish- 
ing light and joy in the glowing morning 
of life, yet his darkness was not despair, 
for out of it had dimly gleamed many 
stars of consolation. Is it not true that 
sometimes, alone and silent in the twi- 
light that succeeds the setting of our 
sun, angels steal from the shadows and 
minister to us until, in the light of 
heaven, w'e forget the earth is dark 1 
The rugged, solitary shore, the rising 
wind, the darkening sea, reflecting the 
sad violet tints of the clouds that were 
gliding into distance like the funeral 
train of a buried king, and the mourn- 
ful rhythm of the waves as they broke 
in ceaseless succession over the drift- 
wood and tangled sea-weed that strewed 
the beach, were all in harmony wdth the 
spirit of Claude, who long ago had 
parted company with the joyous, irre- 
sponsible, almost effeminate nature 
that had seemed the inheritance of the 
boy at Clermont. Dishonored, and de- 
serted by all save Tristan, his proud, 
sensitive heart sought no companionship 
with his equals in rank. Living a stern, 
solitary life, apart from the refinements 
and luxuries of the fashionable world, 


54 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


he found in the ever-varying moods of 
nature a subject that never wearied or 
grew distasteful to him. Alone with 
God and bis own soul, he studied the 
great teacher and consoler, and felt how 
insignificant and unstable are the joys 
of life, compared wfith the pleasure 
derived from contemplating the immov- 
able hills, the firm mountains, the im- 
mensity of the overhanging heavens, 
the regular succession of the sun, moon, 
and stars, the infinity of space, and the 
profound depths of the ocean, with its 
fretting, heaving surface always subdued 
and restrained by the unchangeable 
laws of the great Controller. And 
these all taught him that the Divine 
Architect who perfected this grand and 
noble plan did not intend that man, 
his most excellent creation, should 
fritter away life in frivolity and vanity ; 
that the sublimity of nature was not 
spread before him simply to gratify 
a taste, or minister to a passion, but to 
lead his soul onward and upward to the 
infinite and eternal perfection of the 
hereafter. He had learned early that 
happiness is not to be found in the 
outward surroundings nor in the petty 
pleasures of life, but within ourselves, 
developed and strengthened by a love 
of God and his glorious works. 

There are some natures that strive 
to lull the pain of disappointment and 
regret with an opiate distilled from the 
dregs of sensual pleasure ; to stifle its 
complainings 'with the clashing and 
jangling strife of their fellow-sufferers, 
madder and more restless than them- 
selves. Alas for these poor souls ! 
their stupor ends in a terrible night- 
mare, from which they awaken smitten 
and blasted. There are others who, 
because of some noble germ of strength 
and faith within themselves, rise supe- 
rior to the strokes of misfortune. Look- 
ing Fate unflinchingly in the face, and 
meeting sorrow^ with heroic resignation, 
they lay hold of the firm rock, lifting 
their eyes upw'ard to the summit wLere- 
on stands the Smiter. The foundation 
may shake under them, they may be- 
come weary of clinging, the sands may 
slip from beneath their feet, but still 
they hold fast to God. 

If one had asked Claude to define 
his faith, to explain whence came the 


calm and strength with which he met 
his misfortunes, perhaps he w^ould not 
have said that they came from the 
Father of all good ; for the young man, 
although educated by a guardian of 
souls, had received but very little relig- 
ious instruction, and that had not been 
of a kind to aw’-aken feelings of .simple 
fixith and trust in God. Therefore it is 
likely he would have replied, “ I derive 
my peace and consolation from nature.” 
Still, like many of us, unconsciously he 
w^orshipped God through his blessed 
creation. His thoughts, as he w^atched 
the light fade from the w^est beyond 
the lonely shore of Morbihan, expressed 
in wwds, w'ere these : “ The Sun dies in 
the sea, and Night drops her pall over 
his grave ; the dew^s fall like tears ; the 
wdnd sighs and moans ; the Ocean heaves 
and frets, her bosom convulsed with 
sobs ; the sea-birds w^ail out their grief, 
then fold their wings and droop into 
silence. All nature sorrow^s, but it is a 
calm, subdued sorrow' ; there is no rebel- 
lion, no opposing, no complaining. It 
is God’s decree that his sun should set 
each day, and therefore all creation 
submits to be hidden in darkness. It 
is also God’s decree that our suns should 
set, yet w'e are not patient ; w'e mur- 
mur and moan, and w'eep hot, angry 
tears ; w’e strike in impotent W'ratli 
against a wall of adamant, and cry out 
in our anguish that the darkness of our 
prison is too intense ; w'e are maddened, 
crushed, w'ounded, and almost dead from 
our useless resistance ; and yet we will 
not accept the lesson of submission 
taught us by nature. The brutes are 
w'iser than we ; they lie dowm and rest 
quietly until the night is passed ; they 
know the day will daxvn again, and do 
not w'e also 1 and yet we will not wait. 
It is five years, five long years, since my 
sun set, and still there is no promise of 
dawm.” He raised his eyes upw'ard to 
the arch of God over wdiich w'ere sown 
the diamonds of the night, and a gentle 
smile softened a little the stern sadness 
of his face as he said, “ Why, already 
there are stars ; even w'hile we wait for 
morning, light beams upon us from 
heaven.” Then, stooping, he took his hat 
from under the dog’s paw, saying, “Come 
Ixus, poor Tristan will be tired of v/ait- 
ing for us.” 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


55 


The dog started up as though re- 
lieved from duty, and looking wistfully 
in his master’s face he said, as plain- 
ly as a dog could sa}^, I am ready to 
go.” 

“Poor fellow,” said Claude, patting 
him affectionately, “ you are tired and 
hungry, we have been away since early 
morning.” 

Ixus wagged his tail approvingly, and 
taking the almost empty game-basket 
in his mouth, he started off at a brisk 
trot, looking back now and then encour- 
agingly at his master, who did not seem 
to share his impatience. 

While Claude walks thoughtfully over 
the dreary road that leads from Morbi- 
han to Sarzeau, we will give a brief 
sketch of the five years that have passed 
since the dreadful night when he left 
Clermont with only the poor hunchback 
for his companion. For several weeks 
after, he had lain ill, almost unto death, 
in a little uncomfortable inn at Rennes, 
where he had been cared for, day and 
night, by the faithful Tristan, who 
watched over him with the unwearying 
devotion of a mother. He had moaned 
and tossed with fever, and raved and 
struggled with delirium ; acting over 
and over the dreadful scene with the 
mob ; pleading with Celeste ; deploring 
the unhappy fate of Aimee ; expostulat- 
ing with the Archdeacon, urging in the 
most earnest manner his innocence, 
while he heaped bitter words of indig- 
nation and contempt on his enemy, Pere 
Benoit. The tender heart of the poor 
hunchback felt all his master's pain and 
distress ; with the gentleness of a wo- 
man he pillowed Claude’s head upon his 
breast, soothing him into calm, or held 
him with superhuman strength, when, 
raving with delirium, he w'ould have 
injured himself in his imaginary con- 
flicts with Pere Benoit, receiving with- 
out complaint the blows dealt by the 
unconscious young man with a force 
that only insanity gives. 

When the sufferer’s strength was ex- 
hausted, and he was worn out by his 
violent emotions, Tristan would lull him 
into calm as a mother does a child, say- 
ing pityingly, while his tears fell on the 
wan face, “ Poor child, poor child, why 
cannot thy miserable servant suffer in- 
stead of thee ? Thy poor Tristan would 


willingly give his worthless life to save 
thee from pain.” 

At length the feverish tide ebbed and 
flowed more slowly, and the exhausted 
spirit ceased to wrestle with its imagi- 
nary foes. Then followed long, weary 
days of convalescence, when Claude lay 
like an infant, too weak to be conscious 
of what had preceded the languor and 
indifference he now felt. Beyond his 
window he saw distant hills and a 
thread of the blue Vilaine winding 
among peaceful meadows, white floating 
clouds, and birds circling on idle wings, 
on which he gazed dreamily for hours. 
Sometimes he spoke to Tristan, calling 
him Celeste, or Aimee, believing himself 
to be at Clermont, lying under the pines, 
listening with drowsy ear to their mys- 
terious murmurs, or gathering rose- 
buds for the girls in the summer garden 
at Monthelon. One morning he knew 
that health and strength were returning, 
because a clear recollection of his trou- 
ble came upon him, and his heart was 
full of the old pain. 

“ Bring me some paper and a pen, 
Tristan,” he cried ; “ I must write to the 
Archdeacon.” 

The hunchback supported him while 
he laboriously wrote a few lines, which 
would have touched a heart alive to any 
feeling of pity, so mournfally appealing 
were they, so eloquent with physical 
weakness and mental suffering. He 
implored Fabien with earnest entreaty 
to send him some news of Celeste ; to 
make some efforts to establish the inno- 
cence which he trusted his father’s 
friend, his own patient teacher, his con- 
fessor and guardian from childhood, 
was now convinced of. He told him 
briefly of his illness, and his near 
approach to death, and how, for the 
sake of his honor and his love for 
Celeste, he would struggle back to 
life, and ended by entreating his as- 
sistance and blessing. After weeks of 
impatient waiting and restless expecta- 
tion, an answer reached him, written in 
the coldest, tersest language. The 
Archdeacon passed over in silence his 
earnest inquiries in regard to Celeste’s 
welfare, and ignored all claims upon his 
confidence and affection, but advised 
him not to return to Clermont, as the 
belief in his guilt was as strong as ever, 


56 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


and that he was still in danger of per- 
sonal violence ; that until the body of 
Aimee was discovered there was no 
proof of her death on which to found a 
judicial examination, and that he must 
consider all relation with Mademoiselle 
Month elon permanently ended. It was 
her unalterable decision as well as her 
wish that M. le Comte de Clermont 
should not disturb her peace of mind 
by writing to her, as she was fully con- 
vinced of his guilt, and therefore looked 
upon him with horror. Tears of an- 
guish dimmed the eyes of Claude, so 
that he could scarcely read the formal 
announcement at the end, that his per- 
sonal effects would follow the letter, 
and that all orders would be received, 
and all remittances sent, through his 
banker, M. Lefond, No. 3 Rue des Bons 
Enfants, Rouen. 

“ And so,” he said bitterly as he fold- 
ed the letter, — “ and so Monseigneur 
cuts me off coldly and decisively from 
any further communication with him. 
This is the man to whom my dying fa- 
ther left me as a sacred trust ; this 
plotting hypocrite, this double-faced 
usurper of the rights of guardianship, 
not only of the bodies but of the souls 
of men. He and Pere Benoit have in- 
trigued against me, for what end only 
God knows ; they are both my enemies, 
and are leagued together to ruin me. 
And the melancholy fate of poor Aimee 
has put a chance into their hands to use 
against me. What does it all mean 1 
I have never injured them, and yet 
they display a hate that seems like re- 
venge for some terrible wrong. They 
have succeeded in blighting my life ; 
they have separated me from CMeste ; 
they have stained me with an odi- 
ous crime ; they have instigated a 
vile mob to drive me from my inheri- 
tance ; and all is now left to the entire 
control of this man, who is my legal 
guardian. For two years more I must 
endure it, for two years more he will 
hold my rights, my fate, my property, 
all in his dishonest hands; and I have 
nc redress, for it was my father who 
fettered me with such heavy chains. 
Ah, why had he not discernment 
enough to understand the character of 
the man to whom he intrusted the wel- 
fare of his child I ” 


Long and sadly Claude thought of 
the dreadful complications that sur- 
rounded him, and out of which he saw 
no issue. There was no one to whom he 
could apply for aid. The legal adviser 
and the old and tried friend of his father 
had died a few years before ; and he 
well knew that there was not one ad- 
ministrator of justice in all Rouen who 
did not believe in the Archdeacon, so 
entirely had he won the confidence and 
esteem of the community. 

“And so, Tristan,” he said at last, 
“ we are not to return to Clermont. 
Monseigneur has given me permission 
to remain away as long as I please. But 
you, Tristan, my dear boy, you must go 
to Monthelon for me ; for until I am 
stronger I can do nothing, and I must 
get a letter to Mademoiselle Celeste, 
and there is no one else I can trust to 
carry it but you, and you must promise 
me to give it into her own hands. Do not 
try to get admitted into the chateau, 
but watch for her in the grounds, and if 
you see her for a moment alone give it 
to her, unobserved, if possible. Can I 
trust you, Tristan 1 ” 

“Yes, monsieur, you can trust me. 
If it is possible for me to see Mademoi- 
selle Monthelon she will get the letter. 
But if I cannot see her 1 ” 

“ Bring it back to me. It is no use 
to give it to any other person, for in 
that case I am convinced that she will 
never see it.” 

We are sorry to say that Tristan 
failed in his mission. After hanging 
about Monthelon for more than a w^eek, 
he learned that Mademoiselle never left 
the house ; her mother’s increasing ill- 
ness and her own feeble health kept her a 
prisoner. Still Tristan lingered, hoping 
he might be favored in some unexpected 
way, and unwilling to return to his 
master unsuccessful. One day when he 
sat under the south wall in the summer 
garden sunning himself, and indulging 
in the pleasant belief that the bright 
warm day would tempt the invalid 
out, Jacques suddenly appeared, leading 
the great watch-dog that was usually 
chained at the lodge. Touching his 
hat to Tristan with ironical politeness, 
and pointing to his dumb companion, he 
said impressively, “ Mon aiiii, you have 
no wish to make the acquaintance of 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


57 


Grenet’s teeth, have yen'? They are 
strong and sharp, and they gnaw horri- 
bly. Comprenez ? ” 

Poor Tristan did not understand at 
first, but in a moment the truth flashed 
upon him ; as he had no desire to be 
horribly gnawed, he cast a pitifully re- 
proachful look at Jacques and hobbled 
away toward the gate as quickly as pos- 
sible. The hunchback was no Don 
Quixote, and so he did not court adven- 
ture. He had a deformed, feeble body, 
but a large, tender, faithful heart, that 
would have served his master even to 
death, if his death could have made 
him happy, and withal some sound 
sense and caution that told him in 
such an encounter he would be worsted, 
and to no good ; so he considered a hasty 
retreat the better part of valor. 

On his way back to Rennes he trem- 
bled and wept like a child. He trembled 
to think of Grenet’s sharp teeth and 
ferocious looks, for he was so sensitive 
that he fancied he felt his flesh quiver 
in the jaws of the horrid brute. And 
he wept to think of his dear master’s 
disappointment, and his own failure in 
his first commission of importance. 
Then he thought of the cruelty of 
Jacques, and wondered why God gave 
such wicked men power, and such sav- 
age brutes sharp teeth to gnaw the 
innocent. 

Claude was terribly disappointed and 
indignant at Tristan’s unkind reception, 
but still not quite disheartened. After 
a little time, he wrote to Fanchette, 
and enclosed a letter for Celeste, im- 
ploring the woman to deliver it to her 
mistress. Not long after, it was re- 
turned, with a few lines from Fanchette, 
saying she dared not comply with his 
request, as she had received orders from 
the Archdeacon not to deliver any letters 
until he had seen them. The short 
note was concluded in such terms as to 
leave a little hope that the woman 
would not be invulnerable to a bribe. 
So he wrote again, promising her a 
large sum of money if she would deliver 
the letter. But this tempting offer 
came too late, for it came the day after 
Celeste had entered the Convent of 
Notre Dame. Fanchette, her heart 
torn by the cruel parting from her be- 
loved mistress, wrote a long epistle in 


reply ; pouring out the vials of her 
wrath upon the scheming heads of the 
Archdeacon and Pere Benoit, whom she 
styled ravenous wolves in sheep’s cloth- 
ing. At last her eyes were open, but 
it was too late to save her beloved lady 
from her living death. 

This was a terrible blow to Claude, 
entire ruin to his hopes ; from that 
moment he felt that he had no aim in 
life, no desire to acquit himself before 
the world. Celeste was in reality the 
world he desired to convince ; she was 
lost to him, and with her all humanity. 
Resignation and calm did not come to 
him at once. There were times when 
his strength failed him, and he wept, 
and moaned, and refused food, and 
fretted through the long nights, until 
Tristan thought he would die. Then 
there were pitiful heart-breaking scenes 
between the two, when the servant im- 
plored the master to live for him, and 
tried in his simple, innocent way to 
show him that life still had duties, if 
not joys. Claude would weep on his 
neck, and promise him to stand upright 
under the burden when he had gained 
a little strength with time. “ Now,” 
he would say, “ I am weak, and it 
crushes me down ; by and by, Tristan, 
I shall be a little stronger, and then I 
will show you that I can bear my mis- 
fortunes like a man.” Gradually time 
blunted the keen edge of the spear that 
pierced his heart ; then his wounds 
ceased to bleed, and the tears he shed 
cooled the fever of his brain. He grew 
calm and silent : and with this calm 
came an indifference, a lack of interest, 
a lassitude of the soul, which it was more 
difficult to shake off* than it had been 
to subdue his complaining sorrow. He 
wandered about, careless and aimless ; 
living in the most simple fiishion, with 
no other companion than Tristan. 

Nature effects her mental cures much 
in the same way as she does her phys- 
ical ; passing through the various gra- 
dations, from the crisis to full health. 
The mind has its period of convales- 
cence the same as does the body ; it 
may be longer and more tedious, but it 
ends in perfect restoration, after much 
patient endurance. It was a slow 
process with Claude ; for after the apa- 
thetic calm came the restless desire 


58 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


to accomplish almost impossibilities. 
For more than two years he lived in 
the chalets of the shepherds among the 
Pyrenees ; exploring the departments 
of the Haute Garonne, Ariege, and 
Aude. He scaled the dangerous heights 
of Mont Perdu, and the hoary Mala- 
detta. He wandered among the goat- 
herds on the dreary steeps of Las 
Serradas. He looked from Roland’s 
Breach at the towers of Marbore ; and 
listened to the roar of the waterfalls, 
and the crash of the avalanches among 
the peaks of the Vignemale. He felt a 
savage sort of enjoyment in standing 
far above tlie world, — humanity at his 
feet, the creatures who had so wronged 
him far beneath him, and God’s heaven 
alone above him. There, suspended, as 
it were, between earth and sky, he held 
the closest communion with his own 
soul ; the deepest, holiest feelings of his 
nature expanded like leaves bathed with 
the dews of heaven. The tangled 
threads of life seemed to unravel, and 
clear themselves from all confusion. 
And for the first time he understood 
the lofty intentions of his Creator. 
“ Life was not given us only for self- 
gratification,” he would say; “each one 
should try to aid those who need aid, 
and raise up those who have fallen. 
What a noble ambition to strive to 
elevate humanity to sublimer heights, 
to loftier moral summits. He who 
lives entirely for himself, lives in vain.” 

Then he was conscious that the first 
step up the weary mountain of abnega- 
tion must be over the grave of buried 
hate, revenge, passion, and regret. “ I 
must conquer myself; I must feel only 
pity and tenderness for everything that 
breathes. I must give up the dainty 
refinements and delicacies of an epicu- 
rean life. I must not repose on the lap 
of luxury, while those I would help lie 
on bare stones. I must descend to 
them, or I cannot lift them up.” He 
felt no compassion for those who sat in 
high places, and flourished in the sun 
of prosperity. His heart yearned only 
toward the humble creatures who wring 
out a scanty subsistence from labor and 
pain ; those whom wrong and oppres- 
sion lead in chains through the narrow 
brutalizing paths of vice ; those whom 
no one oflers to conduct in a broader, 


higher way up to the light that dispels 
the shadows from the darkened soul. He 
knew that the greater part of his coun- 
try, oppressed with the double despot- 
ism of Church and State, groaned under 
a bondage to which it submitted be- 
cause it was powerless through igno- 
rance and superstition. “ Why may I 
not be the torch to illuminate their 
path, and lead them to knowledge and 
freedom ? ” was a question he often put 
to his own soul And the ever-ready 
answer was, “ Forget thyself. Remem- 
ber only that thou art but an atom in 
God’s creation, to be mingled with the 
great whole for its strength and per- 
fection.” 

After these serious communings with 
himself on the mountain-top, Claude 
would descend to Tristan in the valley, 
his face so serene and beautiful that the 
hunchback often thought his master, 
having been so near to Heaven, had con- 
versed with God. 

During the five years of wandering 
amid the most rugged and sombre 
haunts of nature, Claude had accom- 
plished little save self-conquest. He 
had subdued his restless, passionate 
heart, he had strengthened his weak, 
ease-loving character, and he had dis- 
covered new resources within himself, 
and now, like a good general, who kuow^s 
he has some reserves, he was prepared 
to begin the battle. For a few months 
he had been living in Sarzeau, a misera- 
ble little town on the peninsula of 
Rhuys, where he owuied a barren estate 
with an old, dilapidated chateau that 
had long been considered uninhabitable. 
He had fixed his residence there because 
the wild and rugged scenery of Mor- 
bihan and the peninsulas of Quiberon 
and Rhuys was congenial to him. He 
liked the strength of the grim rocks, 
and the freedom of the wide sea. There 
was nothing in this stern, ascetic life to 
nurse self-indulgence and idleness; on 
the contrary, there was much to encour- 
age constant occupation and profound 
study. The marvellous monuments of 
a race long since departed, the stones 
of Carnac and of the islands of the 
Morbihan, furnished him with a never- 
failing source of interest. He tried to 
discover, by close and careful investiga- 
tion, whether they were memorials of 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


59 


military power or of religious rites. To 
hi in the determination was in a measure 
significant of the strength of his country. 
Then the inhabitants of these rude 
islands and sterile shores, although mis- 
erably poor and utterly ignorant, were so 
honest, kind-hearted, and intelligent, 
that he felt it to be the very place in 
wdiich to commence his experimental 
trial of doing something for others. 
‘‘These simple, hardy souls,” he rea- 
soned, “ are the men who, educated and 
elevated, will make the future strength 
of the country. The pleasure-loving, ef- 
feminate Parisian is like the froth that 
rises to the surface of a full glass ; and 
these strong drudges are the stamina 
that support it.” 

There was scarce a rude peasant or a 
sun-browned fisherman in all the de- 
partment of Morbihan who did not 
bless the Virgin every day for sending 
them the kind-hearted young Count 
and his gentle servant. Claude, desir- 
ing to make Tristan happy, allowed him 
to dispense the alms he so freely pro- 
vided, and the poor people looked upon 
him, in spite of his unprepossessing 
person, as an angel of charity. 

Claude’s majority had come and 
passed without any communication from 
the Archdeacon, unless a long letter 
from his man of affairs could be con- 
sidered such. This letter announced 
in the stiffest and most formal terms 
that M. le Comte de Clermont having 
reached his majority, the guardianship 
of the Archdeacon terminated according 
to the will of his father, the late Count 
of Clermont. That his lordship had 
delivered into his hands all the books, 
deeds, and documents relating to the 
estate of Clermont. That his lordship 
had withdrawn his residence from Cler- 
mont and left the chateau in the charge 
of a reliable steward. That on account 
of the failure of sundry investments, 
that at the time when they were made 
were deemed judicious by the Archdea- 
con, the revenues of the estate were 
considerably diminished ; and that his 
lordship had thought it advisable to dis- 
pose of some outlying lands in order to 
cancel mortgages on the whole ; that 
the chateau and the estate around it 
were intact, and that all the affairs had 
been arranged in the most advantageous 


manner ; but if M. le Comte wished for 
a more detailed statement of invest- 
ments and securities, he would be hap- 
py to be honored with his commands, 
etc., etc. 

In spite of the general character of 
this letter, Claude understood that by 
some process his inheritance had greatly 
diminished, instead of increasing, under 
the control of the Archdeacon, and that 
he was not nearly as rich as he had 
supposed. What had become of the 
large estate his father had left him '? 
However, at that time he was so en- 
grossed in matters of moral importance 
that he cared very little about entering 
into details of a financial character ; and 
as his income was amply sufficient for 
his simple wants and charitable expen- 
ditures, he deferred an investigation 
that might have revealed some trans- 
actions not strictly honest on the part 
of his guardian. 

He had heard nothing from Celeste 
since the letter of Fanchette, that in- 
formed him of her sacrifice. He had 
come to think of her as we think of one 
long dead, and to mourn for her as we 
mourn for those whom we believe to bo 
saints in Heaven ; neither had he con- 
tinued his correspondence with Fan- 
chette, for his letter in reply to her 
passionate outburst against the Arch- 
deacon and his accomplice, Pere Benoit, 
was never answered ; and so all inter- 
course had ceased between him and 
those who had filled such an important 
place in his life at Clermont. Sarzeau 
and his stern, cold existence seemed a 
boundary line between the poetry and 
romance of his past and the austere 
reality of his future. 


PART SECOND. 

CHATEAU OF SARZEAU. 

When Claude reached the dilapidated 
gate of the ruinous pile that the simple 
peasantry dignified with the name of 
chateau, it had long been dark, and 
Ixus showed such unmistakable signs 
of weariness, that his master, who re- 
lieved him of the weight of the game- 
basket, really pitied him. A somewhat 


60 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


imperative pull at the iron chain 
brought a wizened old man with a lit- 
tle brass lamp in his hand, which shed 
a feeble light over his white beard, red 
cap, and blue shirt. As he opened the 
gate, after fumbling a long time over 
the useless lock, Ixus rushed in between 
his bent and trembling legs, almost 
upsetting him by his impetuosity, and 
quite interrupting the unintelligible 
string of questions he was addressing 
to Claude in a feeble, querulous 
voice. 

“ Never mind, my good Janot, Ixus 
is a rude brute to enter so unceremoni- 
ously,” replied Claude, kindly interrupt- 
ing the old man, who always grumbled 
when he was disturbed to open the 
gate. “ I know I am late, very late, 
but I w^on’t complain if the potage is 
ruined. Give me the lamp and I will 
lead the way.” 

But Nanette,” he muttered as he 
hobbled after his master, “poor Nanette ; 
she never sleeps well if her potage is 
ruined.” 

They crossed the court ; in the centre 
of the broken pavement w'as a mutilated 
fountain. The chubby Cupids, from 
whose united lips the pure water had 
once issued, had long before lost their 
legs and arms, and now the thin stream 
that trickled down their battered cheeks 
seemed like tears they were shedding 
over their unhappy fate. On the tail 
of the dolphin that supported the 
maimed loves hung a great copper 
kettle which caught the scanty shower 
until it filled and ran over in a gentle 
spray upon the heads of celery and 
lettuce that floated in the moss-covered 
basin. The corners of the quadrangle 
-were filled with all sorts of rubbish, — 
broken gardening implements, old barrels 
and baskets, piles of brush-wood, furze, 
and dried sea-weed, — among which, on 
sunny days, a statel}^ cock with a brood 
of submissive hens deigned to scratch, 
much to the disgust of a fat black pig 
who usually took his siesta there. 
Along one side of the court was an 
open corridor that led into a large 
deserted room that had once been the 
reception-hall of some of the nobles of 
Sarzeau. There were the broken and 
much-abused remains of several fine 
pieces of statuary ; some old armor was 


fastened on the walls, and a piece of 
faded tapestry hung in rags between 
the stone mullioned windows. A great 
feeding-trough, filled with grain, lay 
before the antique fireplace, which was 
stuffed with every kind of trash, and 
several heavy oak benches, with elab- 
orately carved backs, were loaded with 
bags of hemp, sacks of vegetables, and 
old clothes, piled indiscriminately to- 
gether. From the far end, through a 
door, gleamed a ray of light, and the 
savory smell of potage greeted them as 
they crossed the dreary hall. 

“ Poor Nanette ! ” muttered the old 
man again, as they entered what had 
once been the library, but was now the 
kitchen. A brisk-looking little woman, 
who did not seem nearly as old as her 
husband, stood before a clean pine table 
making a salad. She was dressed in 
the blue skirt, laced bodice, high cap, 
and wooden shoes of the peasants of 
Brittany. 

“ Well, my dear monsieur, I am glad 
you are come,” she said with a cheery 
bright smile that lightened up the din- 
gy room more than the feeble flame of 
her lamp ; “I am afraid my chicken is 
dried to a crust, and my oseille boiled to 
gruel ; and if you are as hungry as Ixus, 

I have not enough decently cooked for 
you to eat.” The poor brute stood 
with his wet mouth on the edge of the 
table, looking into Nanette’s face wist- 
fully, while he wagged his tail in a w’ay 
that expressed the keenest appetite. 

Claude patted the dog on the head, 
and said, good-humoredly, “ Poor Ixus 
has not enough deception to disguise 
what he feels, and I have, Nanette, — 
that is all the difference. Serve up 
your dinner as soon as you please, and 
we shall eat it whether it is good or 
bad, for wdth walking and with fasting 
we have had a hard day.” 

“ And yet your game-basket is nearly 
empty, monsieur,” said old Janot, con- 
temptuously, as he threw a few small 
birds on the table. “ Monsieur le Comte, 
your father did not eome back from 
hunting without game. He was the 
best shot I ever saw, though he was 
not much of a walker.” 

“ I am a great dreamer, Janot, w^hich 
is the reason I don’t kill more birds,” 
replied Claude, apologetically. “ I some- 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


61 


times forget to fire even when game 
comes in my way.” 

“ No, no, monseiiir, it is not because 
you are a dreamer, it is because you get 
too much interested in the rocks about 
here,” returned the old man, grimly. 

Claude did not reply, but smiled 
indulgently, as he laid his gun on some 
hooks in the wall, and turned to enter 
an inner room. In the middle of the 
floor, on a bit of rug, sat Tristan, a small 
lamp beside him, an open book on his 
lap, and his head bent forward on his 
breast, fast asleep. Claude looked at 
him for a few moments, his face full of 
loving compassion. His poor bowed 
head with its shock of neglected hair, 
his deformed shoulders, and long, thin 
hands folded over the book, filled the 
young man’s heart with pity. “ Patient, 
suffering creature,” he thought, “ shut 
out forever from the love and admira- 
tion of humanity, he forgets his misfor- 
tunes in peaceful sleep, the blessed opiate 
that God gives us to soothe our pain.” 
Then he laid his hand on the hunch- 
back’s head and said gently, “ Tristan, 
Tristan, couldst thou not keep awake 
until I came 1 ” 

Tristan started up bewildered, but 
seeing his master’s kind face bending 
over him, his look of confusion changed 
to shame and penitence, and he hung 
his head while he muttered his excuses. 
“ O monsieur ! I went into the court so 
many times, and once I walked a long 
way on the road to Morbihan, but I did 
not meet you, and I was tired and lone- 
some, so 1 sat down to study my lesson. 
I did intend to hear the bell, and to let 
you in ; but it was so still here without 
you and Ixus, that, before I knew it, I 
lost myself.” 

“ Never mind, my boy,” said Claude, 
kindly, “I am glad you slept ; I like 
you to rest when you are tired. I 
will not stay away so late again, for 
Janot has scolded me, and Nanette says 
the dinner is spoiled; now make me 
comfortable for the evening.” 

Tristan, fully awake, and more active 
than usual because he felt that he had 
been a little neglectful, drew off his 
master’s coat and boots, and replaced 
them with a dressing-gown and slippers, 
and then assisted Nanette to serve. the 
dinner. 


After the simple meal was finished, 
Claude lit a cigar, and went out on a 
balcony overlooking the garden, to med- 
itate and smoke ; while Nanette cleared 
the table, and Tristan lit the candles, 
piled fresh wood on the fire, and 
made the only habitable room in the 
old chateau as cheerful as possible. 

In his middle age, and after city 
pleasures had become somewhat tame, 
the deceased Count of Clermont had 
conceived the idea that this almost 
worthless and neglected property 
might yield him some amusement, if 
not profit. So, for a few weeks in each 
year, he came down from Paris with a 
number of friends, cooks, and grooms, to 
shoot and fish among the islands and 
inlets of the Morbihan. , Several rooms 
had been redeemed from dust and de- 
cay, and made comfortable with the 
cast-off furniture of Chateau Clermont, 
which at that time had been renovated 
for the reception of Claude’s mother, 
then a bride. The room that the young 
Count now occupied had been fitted up 
with more pretension than the others, 
as a salie d manger ; and because of the 
hangings, pictures, and rare cabinet of 
tarsia work, had been preserved v4th 
care by old Janot and his wife, who had 
been servants to the late Count, as a 
sort of show-room, for the simple peas- 
ants and curious strangers who visited 
Sarzeau. During all the years that had 
intervened between the Count’s death 
and his son’s majority, no one had dis- 
turbed the possession of the old couple, 
who lived as they best could off of the 
scanty produce of the little garden, the 
almost barren rocks, and the small coin 
they now and then received from the 
inquisitive who came to look at the 
chateau ; which, after all, was but little 
more than a tumble-down country- 
house, with no historical association to 
give it interest. Gradually all the 
rooms had been dismantled, and shut 
up to dust and silence, save the two 
the old servants occupied. When Claude 
arrived, he had been obliged to purchase 
simple furniture enough to arrange two 
sleeping-rooms, one for himself, and 
one for Tristan ; these, with his salle 
h manger^ constituted his apartment. 
The dining-room was large and lofty, 
with a fine frescoed ceiling and heavy 


62 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


carved cornice. Worn and faded Gob- 
elin tapestry decorated the walls ; a 
large mirror in a Renaissance frame 
covered the space between the high, 
narrow windows, the upper part of 
which was composed of curious stained 
glass, in small diamond panes, while the 
lower part was evidently of a more re- 
cent date. Several large and one or 
two rather good pictures of the old 
French school hung over the doors and 
windows, without any regard to light 
or arrangement. But the most curious 
and interesting objects in the room 
were a Louis XIV. fireplace and an 
exquisitely inlaid cabinet. This costly 
piece of furniture had attracted Claude’s 
attention ; and he had asked Nanette 
the history of it. All she could tell 
him about it was that it had been 
brought with the other things from the 
Chateau de Clermont. The chairs had 
once been richly gilded, but time had 
tarnished their glitter and faded the 
delicate tints of the tapestry that cov- 
ered them. Two uninviting sofas stood, 
one on each side of the chimney, their 
hard arms offering no temptation to the 
weary. Tristan had tried to make the 
room a little more cheerful by various 
devices. He had spread his master’s 
tiger-skin wrap before the hearth ; with 
a bright Scotch plaid he had trans- 
formed some pillows into cushions for 
the sofa, decorated the mantle with 
ferns and shells, and filled one of Na- 
nette’s blue jugs with flowers for the 
centre. A bright wood-fire burned in 
the chimney, and Ixus lay stretched 
at full length before it. Two common 
candles, in Nanette’s brass candlesticks, 
flared and sputtered on a small table, 
drawn up by the sofa, on which were 
Claude’s writing-desk and favorite books. 

When Tristan had arranged every- 
thing for the evening, agreeable to his 
own taste, he stepped out on the bal- 
cony where Claude was smoking and 
musing, his eyes fixed on the starlit 
heavens, and his thoughts following his 
gaze into that infinite space where the 
Creator has strewn his most beautiful 
gems to soften the shadow that broods 
over the brow of night. 

As the servant approached he heard 
his master say, as if he were addressing 
the nebulous clouds that floated above 


him, “ 0, if you could but tell me she 
was there in peace forever, saved from 
sorrow and regret ! ” Tristan felt it his 
imperative duty to interrupt such sen- 
timental reflections, so he laid his hand 
on the arm of the dreamer and said, 
“ Monsieur Claude, the candles are lit 
and the fire is burning nicely. Will 
you not come in ] I am afraid you will 
take cold, it is so chilly here.” 

Claude withdrew his gaze reluctantly 
from the stars, and fixed it on Tristan, 
saying, without the slightest impatience, 
“ I understand your anxiety, you drole ; 
you mean to say that you are eager to 
hear the last chapter of Nathan le Sage. 
Ah, Tristan ! you veil your modest de- 
sires with such a delicate tissue of affec- 
tion that one can perceive them under 
their transparent covering. And you are 
an awful tyrant, in spite of your gentle 
ways, for you always wheedle me into 
doing just as you wish. Don’t look so 
distressed, mon ami, I am only teasing. 
You are quite right to interrupt my 
regretful meditations. We will go in 
and finish the book before your bright 
fire.” And laying his arm tenderly 
around the deformed shoulder of his 
companion, the two entered the room 
together. 

Claude threw himself on the sofa 
piled with pillows, and the hunchback 
dropped upon the tiger-skin at his feet. 

“Why don’t you sit on a chair, Tris- 
tan 1 ” said Claude, looking at him, cu- 
riously. 

“ Because a chair hurts my back, and 
then my proper place is at your feet.” 

“ Cher sot ! why, you are fit to sit in 
the presence of a king ! ” 

“ No, monsieur, no, I am only a poor 
unfortunate whom your kindness has 
saved.” 

“You have not read to me to-day, 
Tristan. Where is your book 1 ” 

“Here it is, monsieur,” drawing it from 
under the pillow of the sofa, and care- 
fully opening it at the mark, — “ here 
it is, but would you not rather read 
Nathan 2 I can wait until to-morrow, 
although” — with a little desire in his 
voice — “I should so like you to hear 
this before I forget it. I have studied 
it so much to-day that I think I can 
read it quite well.” 

“ Begin, Je suis tout d toi, mon amiN 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


63 


The book was a work of Hcgesippe 
^Moreau, and Tristan’s favorite chapter 
was Le Chant (TIxiis. Because he liked 
it he had given the not very felicitous 
name to the great dog of Brittany. He 
had studied this song for months, nearly 
ever since Claude had conceived the 
idea of teaching him to read, and now 
he was certain he could go through it 
without mistakes. Laying the open 
book on his knees, and bending over it 
until his nose almost touched the page, 
he began slowly and hesitatingly, his 
joy and eagerness almost suffocating 
him. “ Ouvrez, — Je suis — Ixus, le 
pauvre — gui de chene — qu’un coup — 
de vent ferait mourir.” Gaining confi- 
dence as he went on, he read with great 
correctness the exquisite little fantasy 
to the end. When he had finished it 
he clasped his hands in ecstasy, and 
raising his eyes brimming with tears to 
Claude’s kind face, he said : “ Grand 
Dieu ! Is it not beautiful to know 
how to read I 0 monsieur, you have 
opened paradise to me ! Now I under- 
stand everything ; and one never forgets, 
does he 1 ” This he said with such a sud- 
den change from exultation to the most 
pitiful anxiety, that Claude could not 
refrain from laughing as he replied, 
“No, my dear boy, one never forgets 
what he has once learned thoroughly. 
There are many things it is well to re- 
member, but there are others it is better 
to forget.” 

“ I know that, monsieur.” 

“ How should you I There is noth- 
ing in your life you would wish to for- 
get, — is there, Tristan 1 ” 

“ 0 3"es, monsieur, there are many 
things,” replied the hunchback, bend- 
ing his head over the book, while the 
tears pattered cn the page. “ I wish I 
could forget all the ridicule, insults, and 
blows I have received. I wish I could 
forget that I am not like others ; that I 
am more hideous than a beast ; that 
all but the few who know me look at 
me with loathing; that the world has 
neither love nor pity for such unfor- 
tunates as I ; and I wish the past was 
not always before me. The dreadful 
scene of the last night at Clermont 
haunts me sleeping '...id waking. I suf- 
fer to remember the wrong and cruelty 
you have endured innocently ; and more 


than all, I wish I could forget the sweet 
voice of Mademoiselle Aim^e. I hear 
it always in the wind and in the sea. 
When a bird flies above me with a clear 
song, I start and tremble, for I remem- 
ber her laugh, and it seems to echo in 
my ears 0 monsieur ! she was an an- 
gel to me, and I loved her. I loved her 
so that when she was lost something 
seemed to die within me that will never 
live again. She is dead, and yet I see her 
always. Her eyes, her white teeth, her 
bright smile, all, all are painted on my 
heart, and the picture will never fade.” 

“ Ah, Tristan ! she haunts me also. 
For five years she has seemed to sur- 
round me with an invisible presence, to 
keep alive the anguish of regret and re- 
morse. I loved her as a sister, and 
yet unwillingly and ignorantly I drove 
her to despair. I mourn for her. I de- 
plore her fate always. When she died, 
joy died with her. They are both dead, 
those two dear faces are lost forever to 
my sight ; one is hidden in the depths 
of the sea, and the other in a living 
grave. Alas that I have survived to 
say it ! ” 

Tristan pressed his master’s hand 
with silent sympathy. 

For a few moments there was no 
sound in the room save the heavy 
breathing of Ixus and the sputtering of 
the flames in the chimne}^ Then Claude 
laid his hand on the bowed head of the 
hunchback, and said firmly but gently, 
“ My boy, we must talk of this no more. 
It unnerves us and makes us weak to 
no purpose. It is God who has done 
all, and what he does is well done, 
therefore we have nothing to say against 
it. Let us both strive to forget the 
past and live for the future. We need 
not be idle, Tristan, we have much to 
do.” 

“ Yes, monsieur, there is much to do. 
Even in this little town there are many 
poor and suffering creatures. I heard 
something to-day that tore my heart. 
A wretched woman, nearly ninety, told 
me she had never in all her life had 
once enough to eat. 0 mon Dieu / 
only think of being alwa^'s hungry for 
ninety years.” And Tristan wrung his 
hands, and rocked himself back and 
forth in real distress at the thought of 
such protracted starvation. 


64 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


“ Is it possible ! ” cried Claude with 
interest, ■ — “is it possible that any one 
can live ninety years in such misery? 
Find her to-morrow, Tristan, and give 
her enough to eat for once.” 

“ I had given away all I had before I 
saw her, but I brought her home to 
Nanette, and she fed her with what she 
had to spare ; and when she had eaten 
all, her eyes still looked as eager as a 
hungry dog’s.” 

“ Poor soul ! she had starved so long,” 
said Claude, compassionately. 

“ Monsieur, I want to ask a favor of 
you ; may I ? ” 

“ Certainly, what is it? Do you wish 
to establish a soup-house, or a hospital, 
or what ? come, tell me,” laughed Claude, 
amused at the poor fellow’s blended 
expression of eagerness and timidity. 

“ 0 monsieur, don’t mock me ! ” im- 
plored Tristan, as he folded his long 
arms around his knees and drew him- 
self up into a bunch, changing his posi- 
tion to one more comfortable before he 
began his important request. “It is 
this : Now that I have learned to read, 
and know what a blessing it is, I want 
to teach some of these poor children 
who lie about in the sun all day with 
the pigs ; there are more than twenty of 
them. May I bring them here into the 
great hall, and teach them for a few 
hours each day ? ” 

“ That you may, my good soul,” re- 
plied Claude, heartily, “ and I will help 
you. To-morrow, if we can find a car- 
penter, we will have the benches mend- 
ed, and a blackboard made, so that you 
can teach them in the most comfortable 
way.” 

“ 0 , how good you are ! ” cried Tristan, 
kissing his master’s hand with lively 
gratitude ; “ now I wdll go to bed and 
dream of it, and to-morrow I shall 
awake happy.” 

After Tristan retired, taking Ixus, 
who olw^ays slept by his bed, Claude 
arose and walked briskly up and down 
the room several times, that he might 
shake off the drowsiness which his wea- 
riness made difficult to resist. Then he 
opened the window and stood for a few 
moments on the balcony. Now he did 
not raise his eyes to the stars, but rather 
let them fall on the silent town beneath 
him. Most of the poor toilers were at 


rest. Here and there a dim light shone 
for a moment, and then went out, and 
darkness dropped the last fold of her 
heavy veil over the deserted streets. 

The sinful, the ignorant, the hungry, 
all share alike the common blessing of 
sleep, he thought as he turned to his 
lighted room. Now he seemed fresh 
and energetic, for he arranged his desk, 
and taking a number of heavy volumes 
from the shelves of the old cabinet, he 
laid them on the table for reference. 
They were mostly the works of Monta- 
lembert, De Tocqueville, Thiers, and R 6 - 
musat, on religion, politics, and litera- 
ture. Then he drew up one of the stiff 
chairs to the table, and, seating himself, 
began to write rapidly, now and then 
pausing to refer to his books. His cheeks 
were flushed, and his eyes were clear 
and intelligent ; there were no signs of 
languor and weariness in his face now. 
When at length the candles flared out 
in their sockets and the feeble light of 
the lamp waned, he laid down his pen 
and looked at his watch. It was long 
past midnight, and he had written an 
eloquent chapter on modern reform. 

At that time a number of contribu- 
tions to the Revue des Deux Mondes 
attracted universal attention by their 
strength, truth, and conciseness, as well 
as the profound thought, delicate humor, 
and tender pathos that distinguished 
them. 

The world did not know that they 
were brought into being in a solitary 
ruin on the rugged shore of Morbihan, 
strengthened by the free wind and wide 
sea, ennobled by self-denial and sacrifice, 
sweetened by a tender memory, and 
saddened by a life-long regret. 


PART THIRD. 

LA CROIX VERTE. 

“I TELL 3^011, M. Jacquelon, he is a 
heretic in disguise, and the hunchback 
is a sly knave w'ho will try to make con- 
verts of your children.” 

“ Pardon, M. le Cure, the. hunchback 
never speaks to the little ones of any 
religion only that of our Blessed Lady.” 

“ How can you tell ? you are not 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


65 


there to hear him, and the little inno- 
cents can’t see the Devil when he is 
covered with the fleece of a sheep. I 
tell you, M. Jacquelon, no good can come 
from such an innovation. What more 
do the children of the parish need than 
their Catechism on Sunday, and their 
week-day lessons from Mere Roche 1 ” 

“ Ah, M. le Cure, that is all very 
well for those who get Catechism on 
Sunday, and Mere Roche through the 
week ; but it is not every father in Sar- 
zeau who has five francs to pay each 
month to M^re Roche, and it is not 
every child that has a decent frock to 
wear to Catechism on Sunday. It is 
only the dirty little wretches that are 
starved that the pigs may thrive, and 
who never touch water unless they fall 
into it accidentally, and who never saw 
a comb in their lives, and never slept on 
anything better than straw, — it is only 
such as these that the poor hunchback 
Tristan gathers up like a drove of stray 
pigs, and leads off to the great hall, 
where he feeds them first, and then 
teaches them to read afterwards. And 
they say that M. le Comte assists him.” 

“ Dieii ! M.leComte assists him?” 

“ Yes, M. le Cure, old Janot told it 
to my Pierre, so you see it is not so 
bad, after all. Of course, they are 
neither my children, nor your — Par- 
don, M. le Cur6, nor the children of 
M. Cabot, nor the children of M. le 
Propri^taire de la Croix Verte.” 

“ What is that you are saying, M. 
Jacquelon?” And the Propri^taire de 
la Croix Verte, wiping his hands vigor- 
ously on a very dirty towel, advanced 
toward the tw'o who were conducting 
the above spirited conversation, seated 
at a small pine table in the dining- 
room, bar-room, kitchen, reception-room, 
all in one, of La Croix Verte. 

The place as well as the occupants 
was a study for an artist. A long 
low room, with smoke-browned rafters, 
abundantly festooned with cobwebs, and 
decorated with strings of onions, dried 
herbs, sausages, and long-necked squash. 
Four small windows, the broken panes 
patched with paper and cloth, and the 
whole nearly opaque with dirt and flies, 
partially admitted the golden rays of a 
June sunset. At the far end was a 
cheminee de cuisine^ its square holes filled 
5 


with brightly burning charcoal, and sur- 
rounded with copper pots and pans. 
Before it stood a fat, florid woman, with 
her blue frock pinned up over her jupon^ 
so as to display a pair of stout ankles 
arrayed in red stockings and wooden 
shoes. She was frying liver, varying 
the occupation by now and then tap- 
ping with her greasy knife the tow- 
head of a dirty urchin. This was 
Madame la Propri4taire de la Croix 
Verte. Along each side of the walls 
that made the length of the room were 
two rows of pine tables, stained and 
greasy. When a guest of any impor- 
tance wished to dine, a coarse cloth was 
put into requisition, but ordinarily they 
were used bare, unless the litter of beer- 
m\igs, cheese-rinds, and sausage-skins, 
mixed with greasy, torn cards and much- 
abused dominos, could be said to cover 
them. Across the corner, near the 
cheminee de cuisine, was placed a long 
table which served for a counter. It 
was surmounted with a red desk, on 
which lay a torn and dirty account- 
book, a well-thumbed almanac, a dusty 
inkstand, and some very bad pens. The 
seat of honor behind the desk, a three- 
legged stool, was usually occupied by 
M. le Propri4taire, when he was not 
engaged in dispensing beer from a cask 
in the corner, or absinthe from some very 
suspicious-looking bottles on a shelf fas- 
tened to the wall. A dozen or more fat 
pigeons that had been hatched in the 
charcoal bin under the cheminee de cui- 
sine waddled about upon the dirty tiles 
and disputed for the crumbs with several 
children, cats, and dogs. 

On the afternoon of which we write 
there was an unusual number of guests 
at La Croix Verte. Nearly every table 
w'as filled with a rough but good-na- 
tured quartette of peasants and fisher- 
men, for it was the fete of St. Peter 
and St. Paul, and most of them were 
breaking their fast the first time for 
the day. Some were partaking of the 
savory fried liver which the smiling 
landlady dispensed, hot and tender, sea- 
soning it with a few complimentary 
words to each ; while others, who were 
not able to afford the luxury of liver, 
adapted themselves to their limited 
circumstances, and laughed and joked 
over their brown loaf, sausage, and beer, 


66 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


without envy or hatred toward those 
who fared better. A few, whose empty 
pockets did not allow their owners to 
regale themselves even on the choice 
beer and sausage of La Croix Verte, 
turned their backs resolutely on the 
feasters and fixed their attention on a 
noisy group of ecart'e players, who now 
and then moistened their hoarse throats 
with sips of absinthe or cafe noir. At 
a table near the door sat M. le Cure 
and M. Jacquelon, the doctor, engaged 
in the animated conversation related 
above. 

M. le Cur^ of Sarzeau was one of 
those peculiarly beastly looking men 
whom it seems as if the Creator had in 
irony endowed with speech. His face 
was in shape like a pear, the smaller 
point representing the forehead ; little 
cunning gray eyes protruded, lobster- 
like, from under a flat, low brow ; while 
a pug nose and large mouth with hang- 
ing underlip, revealing two rows of 
irregular decayed teeth, made the physi- 
ognomy of M. le Cure anything but 
prepossessing. This singular face sur- 
mounted a figure about as symmetrical 
as a toad’s, clothed in a rusty cassock, 
the front and sleeves well polished with 
an accumulation of dirt, snuff, and 
grease; being rather short and well 
fringed, it revealed a pair of immense 
feet covered with coarse shoes, which 
slipped up and down when he walked, 
exposing large holes in both heels of 
his coarse black stockings. It was dif- 
ficult to tell whether he wore the usual 
linen band around his throat, as his 
hanging cheeks concealed the place 
where it should have been seen, making 
him look as though his head was set 
on his shoulders without a neck. From 
this not exaggerated description of the 
personal appearance of M. le Cure, one 
must not suppose that he looked pov- 
erty stricken. On the contrary, every 
wrinkle of his face and every fold of 
his greasy robe over his aldermanic 
proportions gave evidence of good cheer, 
meat in plenty, with a not too rigorous 
attention to fasts, asid good wine when 
he found it necessary to obey the ad- 
vice of St. Paul, which was very often. 
There were a few among the miserable 
inhabitants of Sarzeau who were not 
so steeped in poverty as to be afraid 


to express their opinion, and they, 
among other things, dared to hint that 
the life of M. le Cur^ was not one of 
stern self-sacrifice, that a love of good 
living, and even a little meat on fasts, 
were not the only venial sins he had 
to lay before the Great Absolver. How- 
ever, we will not repeat the gossip of 
Sarzeau. It is enough for our purpose 
to say, that M. le Cure was just the 
man to oppose any innovation or effort 
to enlighten the poor flock that he led 
in the paths of ignorance and want. 
That very afternoon he had walked 
over to the Convent of St. Gildas de 
Rhuys, and there, after taking a glass 
of wine with the lady superior, he had 
laid his grievances before her. Of course 
she sympathized with him, and agreed 
with him that M. le Comte de Clermont 
and his hunchbacked servant could 
only be emissaries of Satan, sent to 
lead astray the feeble flock of M. le 
Cure. 

The priest was a dependant on the 
old Convent of St. Gildas, and so he 
never dared to censure the ladies in 
charge ; but now, feeling that he had 
serious cause for complaint, after several 
hems and hahs, he hesitatingly ob- 
served “that these innovations were 
the result of their opening the time- 
honored Convent of St. Gildas for 
boarders during the bathing-season ; 
thereby introducing strangers into the 
until then quiet and retired town of 
Sarzeau.” 

The lady superior did not at all like 
this reflection on her management, 
which she considered extremely clever 
and judicious. As the impoverished 
treasury of St. Gildas was much in 
need of replenishing, she had thought 
of nothing more legitimate than that of 
offering a few ladies, during the bathing- 
season, a convenient home, which the 
dirty town of Sarzeau could not afford* 
them, for which she received an ample 
compensation, that rendered her poor 
nuns more comfortable during the long, 
rigorous months of the winter that 
sweeps so fiercely over the dreary pe- 
ninsula of Rhuys. In consideration of 
the necessity, and her wisdom in util- 
izing the empty rooms of the old con- 
vent, she believed she merited the 
greatest praise of M. lo. Cure, in- 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


67 


stead of his nnjnst censure. Therefore 
it was with no very gentle voice that 
she replied, “ Pardon, M. le Cur6, but 
we are all apt to believe others to 
be the cause of our troubles instead of 
ourselves. Now, it seems to me, that 
if you had kept a closer watch over 
your flock, it would not have strayed 
away, and fallen into the jaws of the 
wolves. Guide and protect those who 
are given into your charge as well as I 
do those who are given to me, and you 
will find that they will not be led away 
by strangers to strange doctrines.” 

After this wholesome advice, the su- 
perior dismissed M. le Cure very coldly, 
and he walked back to Sarzeau in a 
towering passion. Entering La Croix 
Verte for his evening dish of gossip, 
washed down with absinthe, he en- 
countered his natural adversary, M. 
Jacquelon ; and then ensued the con- 
versation which was interrupted by M. 
le Proprietaire, who demanded of M. 
Jacquelon what he was saying. 

“We were speaking of the school 
that M. le Comte has established in the 
great hall of the chateau,” replied M. 
Jacquelon, with much deference; for 
all the town, including M. le Cure, M. 
le Docteur, and M. le Avocat, were 
deferential to M. le Proprietaire de la 
Croix Verte, who held a despotic sway 
over his greasy kingdom. No one could 
afford to quarrel with him, and thereby 
lose the only amusement the dreary 
little town offered, — that of sipping 
absinthe and coffee, and gossiping over 
cards and dominos in the bar-room of 
La Croix Verte. 

M. Jacquelon and M. le Proprietaire 
were the best of friends, thereby illus- 
trating the adage that “contrasts are 
pleasing,” for no two human beings 
were ever created more dissimilar. M. 
le Proprietaire was tall and stout, with 
a neck like an ox, a broad, good-natured 
face, all pink save a little tuft of very 
black hair on his chin ; wide-open black 
eyes, and strong, white teeth. He usu- 
ally wore a pair of greasy trousers, that 
once had been white, a blue shirt, with 
the sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, 
displaying a pair of brawny arms, dark 
with Esau’s covering ; and around his 
throat he displayed a scarlet kerchief, 
tied in a loose knot. In recalling my 


impression of M. le Docteur of Sarzeau, 
as he once appeared before me, I can 
think of nothing he so much resembled 
as an unfledged gosling. His great 
bald head, with a little fringe of yellow 
hair, low forehead, beak-like nose, and 
retreating chin, were connected to his 
body by the smallest, longest neck ever 
seen ; which seemed to be stiffened, to 
support his head, by white folds of 
starched cloth bound tightly around in 
a way that suggested strangulation. 
His shoulders were narrow and sloping, 
his arms and legs short, and his very 
long body was rotund at the base. A 
yellow-green coat, buttoned close, cov- 
ered his upper proportions, and reddish- 
yellow breeches completed his resem- 
blance to the ahove-named fowl. 

The greatest pleasure that cheered 
the laborious life of M. le Proprietaire 
was to listen to a verbal combat be- 
tween M. le Cure and M. Jacquelon. 
So on this evening, as the conversa- 
tion warmed, he approached, not so 
much to put the question he had asked, 
as to overhear the discussion. When 
M. Jacquelon informed him of its sub- 
ject, he merely nodded his head, dis- 
playing all his white teeth in a good- 
natured smile, as he said, “ Go on, go 
on, my friends, and I will listen.” So 
he planted himself before them, his feet 
wide apart, and his folded arms cov- 
ered with a dirty napkin, spread out as 
if to dry ; while he bent his head for- 
ward, and fixed his eyes on the two 
with the satisfied expression of one who 
expects a rich treat. 

For a long time the war of words 
raged between M. Jacquelon and M. le 
Cur6, uninterrupted by M. le Propri4- 
taire, until he, seeing that the priest was 
overwhelming the liberal opinions of 
the little doctor with an immense volley 
of rather contradictory theological argu- 
ments, he stepped in to the rescue of 
his friend, and declared boldly that he 
approved of the step M. le Comte had 
taken toward the civilization of the 
little savages of Sarzeau. 

“ Parhleu ! ” he cried, bringing the 
great fist down on the table with a 
force that made the Cur6 and the doctor 
jump nearly from their seats, “ I wish 
M. le Comte would ask for my children, 
he should have them.” 


68 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


M. le Cure wiped his damp forehead 
with his soiled blue handkerchief, took 
slowly a pinch of snuff, passing the box 
to M. le Proprietaire to show him that 
he entertained no hard feelings on ac- 
count of a difference of opinion, and 
then said with a little deprecating tre- 
mor in his voice, “You forget, mon- 
sieur, — you forget that your first duty 
to your children is to have them well 
instructed in the religion of Mother 
Church, and you forget that your words 
are a reflection on me. Have I then so 
neglected my sacred office as Cur4 of 
Sarzeau, that you find it necessary to 
give the lambs of my flock to a strange 
shepherd 1 1 have no doubt that M. le 

Comte de Clermont is a Christian gen- 
tleman, but I believe the hunchback is 
a knave, deformed in punishment for 
some crime, and therefore dangerous to 
the spiritual welfare of my people.” 

What reply M. le Propri6taire would 
have made to this I cannot say, for at 
that moment a general movement de- 
noted that some one of distinction was 
entering. 

“ M. le Comte de Clermont, M. le 
Comte,” passed from mouth to mouth 
in a suppressed whisper, as Claude, fol- 
lowed by Tristan, darkened the low 
door. 

It w^as the first time Claude had ever 
appeared in the bar-room of La Croix 
Verte, and therefore the visit of so dis- 
tinguished a guest caused no little com- 
motion. The landlady unpinned her 
frock and whipped on a clean apron. 
The landlord rolled down his sleeves, 
tightened the knot of his red kerchief, 
gave a little upward twitch to his trou- 
sers, and throwing a clean napkin over 
his arm, appeared all smiles and compla- 
cency before his new guests ; while M. 
le Cure was seen to stoop as much as 
his corpulency would allow him, to tuck 
his worn stockings into the heels of his 
shoes, after w^hich delicate deception he 
stood up, and holding his dusty hat over 
the dirtiest spot on the front of his cas- 
sock, he made'' a succession of little 
reverences, half bows and half courte- 
sies ; and M. Jacquelon, craning up his 
long neck, and bending his ungainly lit- 
tle body almost to a right angle, walked 
forward with stiffened legs, after the 
fashion of West kind grooms (it had been 


hinted that M. le Docteur had been for- 
merly a groom to a Paris physician, and 
in that way had gained his medical 
knowledge), his short arms extended 
with the palms up, as though he had 
something rare to display to M. le 
Comte. 

Claude advanced into the room with 
a grave but kind smile, bowed to M. le 
Proprietaire and his wife, and then 
walked straight up to M. le Cure and 
offered him his hand. 

The priest looked astonished, then 
gratified, at such a mark of respect, and 
giving his chubby hand a little dab on 
the skirt of his robe, to wipe off the 
snuff, he eagerly relinquished it to the 
friendly grasp of Claude. 

“Will M. le Comte please. to be seat- 
ed 1 ” said the landlord, whisking the 
dust off a chair with his napkin, and 
placing it at the table betw'een the Cur6 
and the doctor. 

Claude bowed his thanks, took the 
seat, and drew up another beside him 
for Tristan, at which they all looked 
surprised, and some whispered, “M. le 
Comte is an original, he allows his ser- 
vant to sit in his presence.” 

“ Will M. le Comte be served with 
anything our poor house affords 1 ” said 
M. le Proprietaire obsequiously, laying 
a well-thumbed wine-card on the table. 

Claude ordered a bottle of Chateau 
Margeaux, to which he helped the priest 
and the doctor plentifully, although he 
scarcely drank himself. 

When the good wine had raised the 
spirits of the somewhat abashed Cure, 
and had loosened the tongue of M. Jac- 
quelon, Claude cleverly and with the 
most conciliatory language introduced 
the subject that had been under discus- 
sion when he entered. He had learned 
through Tristan of the priest’s opposi- 
tion, and as he did not wish to cause 
dissension in the peaceful town of Sar- 
zeau, he saw at once that his best 
chance of success lay in securing the 
approval and co-operation of M. le Cure. 
So it was for this object that he visited 
La Croix Verte, and, finding the recep- 
tion more friendly than he had antici- 
pated, he felt encouraged to proceed 
with his negotiation. 

“ I hope I have not infringed on any 
of your privileges, M. le Cur6,” he said 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


69 


gently, “ in my effort to better a little 
the position of the poor and ignorant 
about Sarzeau. Although I have not 
until now had the pleasure of your ac- 
quaintance, I felt sure that one who 
had the welfare of all humanity at 
heart would sanction whatever I might 
do in the right direction, and your kind 
reception now shows me that I have not 
been mistaken.” 

M. le Propri^taire, who stood behind 
Claude’s chair, winked at M. Jacquelon, 
and laid his right forefinger over his 
left, to indicate that Claude had got 
the best of M. le CuiA, who, after hav- 
ing taken several pinches of snuff to 
fortify himself for a reply, was vigor- 
ously rubbing his nose and polishing it 
off with his soiled handkerchief rolled 
into a hard ball. While he was think- 
ing of what he should say that would 
not disagree with his former remarks 
and compromise his dignity, M. Jacque- 
lon, drawing his stiff cravat a little 
higher, leaned forward and said dis- 
tinctly, “ Pardon, M. le Comte, but I 
was just telling M. le Cure that he was 
altogether wrong to condemn your mo- 
tives before he understood them. And 
in regard to your religion, I took the 
liberty of assuring him that you were a 
good Catholic, as was also monsieur,” 
with a little nod at Tristan, whom he 
was at a loss whether to address as a 
superior, inferior, or equal. 

The priest looked disconcerted at the 
inopportune veracity of the doctor’s 
speech, and his heavy face flushed as he 
stammered out, “ 0 M. le Comte, one 
hears the truth so perverted ! I — I 
assure you I suppose, — I mean, I was 
led to think that you, monsieur, and 
your young man, were interfering with 
the religious teaching of my children, 
in fact that you were trying to sow the 
seeds of strange doctrines in their tender 
hearts.” 

“0, I understand perfectly ! ” said 
Claude, calmly. “ If you had known 
that I desired only the welfare of the 
people, your interest would have been 
with me, would it not 1 ” 

The Cure confusedly fingered his 
glass and replied, “Certainly, certainty.” 

“ I try to be a good Catholic,” con- 
tinued Claude, “ and I do not believe 
our holy religion need hinder or prohibit 


the inculcation of noble and liberal 
opinions ; but I do not wish to interfere 
in any way with doctrines. I leave 
them to those better taught in theology. 
You must know, mon ph'e, that our 
country has need of strong, self-reliant 
men, those whose judgment is based 
upon their own knowledge, a knowledge 
they must be able to gather for them- 
selves from the history df the past and 
the events of the present. The first 
step toward that end is to teach them 
to read and then to furnish them with 
books and journals, that their minds 
may be opened to ideas of emancipation, 
that they may understand true freedom 
to be the freedom of one’s self and 
one’s opinions.” 

By this time a number of the card- 
players had left their tables, and gath- 
ered around the debaters, and when 
Claude finished his short but earnest 
speech they all applauded it heartily. 

M. le CuiA looked discomfited, while 
M. Jacquelon’s broad mouth was gen- 
erously stretched in a grin of satisfac- 
tion. 

Claude raised his eyes to the coarse 
but honest faces of the men gathered 
around him, and seeing in the expression 
of many the pathetic history of a life’s 
disappointment and failure, his heart 
went out to them in silent sympathy 
and pity, mingled with an earnest desire 
to lift the veil of ignorance and super- 
stition that enshrouded them. “ 0 my 
God ! ” he thought, “ why can they not 
have a chance to become something 
more than beasts 1 ” Then he glanced 
at the heavy, besotted face of the priest, 
and felt most forcibly the bitter contra- 
diction, the wrong and deception, there 
was somewhere in the political and 
religious economy of the nation. 

“ Go on, M. le Comte, go on,” cried 
the Proprietaire, throwing his arms out 
behind him to clear a little more space 
around the table, — “go on, we all like 
to hear the truth.” 

“ You mean,” cried the Cur4, forget- 
ting himself in his anxiety to keep the 
moral bandage over the eyes of his peo- 
ple, — “you mean that you all like some 
new excitement, anything that gives 
you a reason for breaking the laws of 
God. Schisms, dissensions, rebellions, 
are all against his divine teaching, and 


70 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


the liberty, that with the mass means 
license, can lead to no good.” 

“ Pardon, mon pere, you mistake me,” 
said Claude, I do not advocate the lib- 
erty that means license. I advocate a 
liberty that leads to self-government, 
founded on a knowledge of one’s self 
and of the higher needs of humanity, 
and that liberty and that self-govern- 
ment can only be brought about by 
educating both the head and the heart. 
First we must understand ourselves, 
then we must strive to understand 
others. While studying the inexhausti- 
ble page of the human heart, we dis- 
cover its needs and are led to minister 
to them. Society based upon a mutual 
desire to teach and to be taught would 
soon become less arrogant, less egotisti- 
cal, and less despotic. Therefore I say, 
teach every man, woman, and child to 
read, and give them books freely. The 
natural good will assert itself, grow and 
develop into strong, noble characters, 
separating itself from the weak and 
ignoble, and with time and patience 
the reform will adjust itself to the new 
regime. This can only be done by 
enlightening humanity, and giving it 
knowledge with its daily bread ; for why 
should the body be surfeited while the 
soul starves ^ ” 

You are right, you are right. God 
bless you, M. le Comte,” exclaimed sev- 
eral, pressing forward eagerly. “We 
are ignorant, it is true, but it is not 
from choice. We wish to learn to read, 
but we have neither time nor money.” 

“ My friends,” cried Claude, standing 
up and facing the crowd who were press- 
ing around him, — “ my friends, what 
I can do for you I will do gladly and 
cheerfully. You labor through the day, 
but your evenings are free, are they 
notl” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” in eager, excited tones. 

“ Then come to the hall of the cha- 
teau, every night if you like, and I will 
teach you how to read, and supply you 
with books when you have learned. 
You will be better for it, all of you. 
You will make better men, better hus- 
bands, better fathers. Will you come 1 ” 

“We wdll, we will,” they all shouted. 

The Cure looked uneasy, but seeing 
Claude had all the strength on his side 
he was obliged to appear to concede ; 


so muttering “ Tempori parendum ” to 
himself, he said aloud with as good 
grace as possible, “ My children, this is 
very noble and generous of M. le Comte. 
I hope you will improve to the utmost 
such an excellent opportunity ; and let 
me entreat you to think also of your 
spiritual interests, and not to neglect 
my teaching.” 

There was not one among the honest 
men who replied to the Cure’s hypo- 
critical advice, but received it silently, 
with winks, nods, and grimaces of con- 
tempt behind his back. 

“ Sapri,sti ! muttered a great, red- 
nosed fisherman, “there is more good 
stuff in the little finger of M. le Comte 
than in all the fat paunch of M. le Cur4, 
who thinks more of his greasy potage, 
ahsinthey and ecarte, than he does of all 
our souls put together.” 

“Ah, my Gratien, if you could but 
grow up to be a noble man like M. le 
Comte ! ” said the landlady to her eldest 
hope, as she fished a bit of liver out of 
the fat she had let burn while listening 
to Claude’s earnest words. “ You shall 
go to the chateau and learn everything, 
and then perhaps one day you will 
become as great a scholar as M. le 
Docteur. Eh, mon enfant ? ” And she 
tapped the wide-eyed boy lovingly with 
her dripping fork, as she turned to take 
up another piece of the meat that lay 
on a table near. 

At first the good-natured face of M. 
le Proprietaire clouded as he thought of 
the custom he might lose from Claude’s 
proposal ; but soon a philanthropic 
desire for the good of his townsmen 
overcame every selfish thought, and he 
joined as heartily as the others in 
applauding the noble offer of M. le 
Comte. 

Of course, M. Jacquelon, being a 
professional man, prided himself on a. 
liberal education, and therefore was not 
slow in sustaining the opinions he had 
advanced before Claude entered. 

In this amicable way matters adjusted 
themselves, much to the gratification of 
the young regenerator, who had not 
dared to hope for so easy a conquest. 

It was a happy moment for Tristan. 
He was delighted to see such a demon- 
stration of approval from the people 
who a few days before had looked upon 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


71 


them with distrust and suspicion. Si- 
lently he turned his great eyes, filled 
with tears of joy, to the face of his 
master, who smiled and nodded intelli- 
gently, for they understood each other 
without words. 

“ Now, my good friends,” said Claude, 
“let us all sup together as a pledge of 
good feeling and common interest. — M. 
le Proprietaire, place the best you have 
upon the table, the best meats, and the 
best wine, and you and your good wife 
sit with us.” 

For an hour after there was such a 
clattering of glasses, knives, aud plates, 
such bursts of good-natured laughter, 
such unaffected mirth, as was seldom 
heard at La Croix Verte. 

The supper was nearly over, and 
Claude, with Tristan, had risen to re- 
tire, when a dusty travelling-carriage, 
with tired horses and sunburnt driver, 
drew up before the door, and two men 
alighted. At the first glance it was 
easy to perceive that they were persons 
of no common pretensions. The eldest, 
who was fifty-five or sixty, had a tall, 
soldierly figure, a handsome, expressive 
face, thick, curling gray hair, and pier- 
cing black eyes. The other, who was 
less than thirty, was slight and fair, 
with melancholy blue eyes, a girlish 
mouth, shaded by a thin, flaxen mus- 
tache, and extremely small feet and 
hands. Their nationality was very soon 
determined ; for both simultaneously 
exclaimed in English, “ Good heavens ! 
what a place ! Where are we to sleep 
to-night Then turning to the Pro- 
pri^taire, the eldest said in perfect 
Parisian French, “ My good man, have 
you a comfortable apartment for us 1 ” 

“ Certainly, certainly ; will monsieur 
please to follow me. I have an elegant 
suite above, which is entirely at the 
disposal of monsieur, if he will kindly 
do me the favor to accept it,” said M. 
le Propri4taire, with professional insin- 
cerity ; leading the way, as he spoke, to 
a dirty flight of stairs at the far end of 
the room. 

As they passed, without glancing in 
his direction, Claude heard the younger 
man say, “ I wish those stupid old nuns 
at St. Gildas were a little less monastic. 
One would think they believed all men 
Don Juan’s disciples, by the way they 


hurried us off after they secured the 
ladies. It would have been jolly to 
have taken up our abode in the old 
abbey.” 

The remainder of the remark Claude 
did not hear ; for as they mounted the 
staircase after the landlord he shook 
hands with the doctor and the Cure,* 
inviting them to dine with him the 
next day, and bowing kindly to his 
new friends, he went out into the soft 
June night, with an unaccountable feel- 
ing of sorrow and dissatisfaction in his 
heart ; even though he had achieved 
a conquest over the Cure, and had 
gained the esteem and good-will of the 
people of the town, he felt discouraged 
and oppressed, for something in the 
voices or faces of the strangers had 
awakened emotions he could not banish. 


PART FOURTH. 

ALMOST A DEFEAT. 

The next morning after the supper 
at La Croix Verte Claude arose with a 
dull headache, and with the dissatisfied 
feeling of the night before. Tristan 
looked anxiously at his pale face and 
heavy e^^es, when he brought him his 
coffee, and suggested a smart walk in 
the clear morning air. 

“You are right, mon ami, it is just 
what I need, and it will put me in 
better condition at once. A flutter of 
Mother Nature’s pure breath over a 
feverish forehead cools it quicker than 
a compress of Farina’s best eau-de- 
cologne, I will start at once and be 
back to breakfast with a splendid appe- 
tite. And while I am off to the shore, 
you must go into town and find Jerome 
the carpenter. There must be some 
more benches put up and some rough 
tables provided for my poor students to 
sit at. 0 Tristan, my good soul ! can 
you tell me what has become of my 
last night’s enthusiasm 1 I regret al- 
ready my philanthropic undertaking. 
My heart is heavy, my head dull, and 
I am a coward, for I shrink from a duty 
that I boasted to myself I had strength 
enough to perform. Pray for me, my 
boy, that I may not fall just when I 


72 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


have most need to stand. Adieu until 
breakfast.” 

When Claude left the gate of the 
(shateau, he turned his face toward St. 
Gildas, and walking through the suburbs 
of the town came out on to the barren 
and rocky shore, from whose highest 
summit rise the towers that surround 
the old abbey immortalized as the retreat 
of Abelard. It had always possessed a 
deep interest for him, because it had 
been the grave of a great disappoint- 
ment and a cruel sorrow. But this 
morning as he looked at the turrets 
outlined against the clear sky, and 
gilded with June sunlight, a strange 
feeling drew his heart with his eyes 
to one of the narrow upper windows, 
from which leaned a fresh pure face. 
It was a face he had never seen before, 
a very lovely face, yet it did not attract 
him as did a white hand that lay ca- 
ressingly on the brown braids encircling 
the head like a coronet. The hand 
belonged to some one within the room, 
whose face and figure he did not see; 
still he felt as though the slender fin- 
gers had pressed upon his heart and 
stilled its beating. 

The eyes of the girl were fixed ear- 
nestly on the shore beloAv the convent, 
and Claude, following the direction of 
her gaze, saw there, leisurely walking 
along the beach, the two strangers who 
the night before had arrived at La 
Croix Verte. He caught a glimpse of 
the white hand waving a welcome, 
which was returned by the gentlemen. 
And he saw the lovely face turned 
upward to the owner of the fair hand, 
with an eager entreaty that seemed to 
say, “ They are coming, let us go to 
meet them.” 

Claude turned away toward Sarzeau 
with a feeling of loneliness and isola- 
tion which he thought would n'ever 
again revive wdthin his heart. The 
fresh breeze, the clear sunlight, the 
sportive waves that rippled upon the 
sand and then retreated with bewitch- 
ing grace, the gentle twitter of the 
birds that built their nests in the grim 
rocks, the many familiar voices of na- 
ture, awoke no responsive thrill wdthin 
his sad soul, neither had they power 
to soothe his feverish restlessness. To 
avoid the strangers who were advancing 


toward him he climbed up the rocky 
steep to the Castle of Sucinio, and 
stood there a long time contemplating 
the great round towers, built in feudal 
times by the Red Duke of Brittany, 
while he thought mournfully of the 
impotence of man, the insignificance of 
his hopes, fears, and disappointments. 
“ They pass away,” he said sadly, — 
“ they pass away, and the spot that gave 
birth to one generation stands to wit- 
ness the dissolution and decay of many 
successive ones. How small a handful 
of dust must now remain of the haughty 
Red Duke ! And the bones of the brave 
Constable de Richemont, who first saw 
the light here, fill but a little space in 
his proud tomb. And yet these walls 
stand, and time as it passes leaves but 
few traces upon them. The stranger 
goes by and looks up at the ivy on the 
battlements, waving a welcome to him 
in the place of the fair hands that 
greeted the returning warrior more 
than six hundred years ago.” 

Was life more tragic once than it is 
now h Did the heroic souls who strug- 
gled over the sands of Quiberon only 
to be driven back into the sea by the 
indomitable Hoche suffer any keener 
pain at their failure than did Claude 
on this morning when he looked again 
on the disappointment of his life 1 Did 
the brave Sombreuil, who with desper- 
ate courage drew up his little band for 
the last conflict, make any firmer re- 
solves, any stronger determination to 
conquer his enemy, than did Claude 
to overcome and subdue his regrets and 
desires 1 I think not. And yet the 
world calls them heroes, and weeps over 
their sad fate, but it has no tears, no 
pity, for one who is vanquished in a 
combat with the passions. 

When Claude, returning, reached the 
gate of the chateau, he felt more de- 
pressed and disheartened than he did 
on setting out. Even the intention of 
doing something for the improvement 
and happiness of others brought him no 
comfort, for he now thought of the labor 
of the coming evening as of a task fool- 
ishly imposed upon himself in a^moment 
of excitement, through a sudden access 
of generosity. Entering the court he 
saw old Janot sitting on a stone by the 
fountain, picking over oseille for the 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


73 


dinner he had stupidly invited the 
Cure and M. Jacquelon to partake of. 

When the old man saw his master, 
he looked up and said in his thin, com- 
plaining voice, “ Too many changes, 
too many changes, M. le Comte. We 
are too old, my Nanette and me, to 
attend to all these things. If M. le 
Cure of Sarzeau and M. le Docteur 
must be invited to dinner, monsieur 
must find another cook, my Nanette is 
too old. This is a fine change to turn 
the great hall into a school for the 
canaille. Who is to open the gate to let 
them in and out % I am too old and 
too lame to do it, M. le Comte.” 

“ Don’t fret, my good man, don’t fret, 
you need not do it ; Tristan will find 
another man,” replied Claude sharply, 
for the old servant’s complaints annoyed 
him like the repeated prick of a pin in 
tender flesh ; yet it was so little to lose 
his temper for that he felt angry at 
himself, and thought, “ Bah ! what a 
beast I am to speak harshly to that 
poor old wretch, who has long ago for- 
gotten what he knew before I was born, 
and who has lived here so many years in 
undisturbed possession that he believes 
himself the owner. I should despise 
myself for being disturbed by the fan- 
cies of a child, and he is a child with a 
burden of more than eighty years press- 
ing upon him.” With this severe self- 
reproach, he tried to sp^ak more pleas- 
antly to Nanette, who met him at the 
door, telling him breakfast was waiting 
him. A French breakfast is at midday. 

“ Ah, monsieur, you are always gay ! ” 
she said, as he entered. “ Well, at your 
age one can be gay and happy both, but 
when one is old he can be happy, but 
never gay. Poor old man,” glancing 
fondly at Janot, “poor old dear, he is so 
cross this morning because I told him 
he could not see the decayed leaves in 
the oseille. He thinks he is young, 
monsieur. You know it is hard to 
remember that one’s life is all behind 
one ; so I humor his fancies, I let him 
go over it, monsieur, I let him go over 
it to please him, but I do it all after 
him. The fowls are all dressed, — fine 
fat ones too. Tristan went to market 
this morning and picked out the best, 
but he paid a half-sou too much the 
pound, and without breaking the legs to 


see if they were tender. Only think, 
monsieur, of one buying chickens without 
breaking the legs. The poor hunchback 
has a very kind heart, monsieur, a very 
kind heart, but he is as stupid as a 
turtle. You know, monsieur, M. le 
Cur4 likes a good dinner, and he shall 
have one, for Nanette knows how to 
cook to-day as w^ell as she did when M. 
le Comte votre pere came down from 
Paris, with his friends, to shoot sea- 
birds. That was a long while ago, and 
Paris is a long way off ; but still there 
is M. le Comte come to cheer up the 
old chateau with his pleasant face. Ah, 
monsieur ! in youth we are always gay, 
but perhaps we are happy only in old 
age.” And so she chattered on very 
disconnectedly, but with some nice 
touches of truth, as she followed Claude 
to the breakfast-table. 

A few moments after the breakfast 
had commenced, Tristan entered hurried- 
ly, eager with important communica- 
tions. He had found the carpenter, who 
would come at once to make the benches 
and arrange the tables, so that all should 
be ready for the evening. Then he had 
met a little boy with a basket of fine, 
fresh strawberries, and he had bought 
them for dessert ; and he had found a 
number of lamps in the town that would 
do nicely to light up the hall ; and he 
had heard that the strangers at La Croix 
Verte were two English lords, whose 
ladies were at St. Gildas for bathing, 
while they were to remain at the inn 
because the nuns would not receive 
them into the convent, although they 
had offered more gold than had been 
seen in the old abbey for years. 

All this Claude listened to patiently ; 
and he even tried to interest himself in 
the petty details of the dinner and the 
arrangements of the table, which Na- 
nette declared would look hourgeoise 
with common delf and no silver. “ Such 
a thing,” she said, “would never have 
been thought of, monsieur, in the time 
of M. le Comte votre pere, for a noble to 
invite people to dine with him at his 
chateau with no projDer mhiage for 
serving them.” For some reason, the 
incongruities of his life seemed more 
apparent on this day than ever before. 
He regretted that he had gone to La 
Croix Verte the previous evening, for 


74 


A CEOWN FEOM THE SPEAK. 


he did not feel equal to the task he had 
taken upon him. What had become of 
all his earnest resolutions, his enthusi- 
astic professions of interest 'I He had 
felt an impulse to a generous act, 
and before he had fairly begun the 
work he was already weary of it. 
Starting up from the sofa on which he 
had thrown himself dejectedly, he said, 
in a stern, loud voice, “ I am an un- 
grateful beast; a feeble, puling, miser- 
able wretch ; a dolt, a coward. I have 
neither strength nor courage. Good 
God ! I did not believe that a glimpse 
of a white hand, the sight of r.efined 
faces, and the sound of a cultivated 
voice, could make such havoc with my 
resolutions. I have lived so long with 
vulgar but honest souls that I thought 
such puerilities had no power to touch 
me. I thought I had stilled the cries 
of my heart for another and more 
gentle life. I thought Nature and her 
untaught children could make me forget 
the station I was born to, the home 
from which I was thrust by deception 
and injustice ; but it has all returned 
to me with double power. I am con- 
sumed with the old longing to sit once 
5:1 ore in my elegant rooms, to look 
again upon pictures and statues, to 
sleep under silken curtains, to step 
upon tapestry, to be clothed in purple 
and fine linen, to look over acres of 
cultivated and decorated grounds, to 
wander among exotics that woo false 
breezes and raise their lips for the 
caresses of a strange sun, to fare 
sumptuously every day at a table load- 
ed with delicacies and glowing with 
color and light, to listen to music from 
stringed instruments, swept by white 
hands ; in short, — in short to taste of 
enervating luxury and gilded idleness. 
And these desires are the result of five 
years of privation and sacrifice, five 
years of hardening and chilling 1 Alas ! 
then I have suffered for nothing, if I 
am to be heated and melted by the first 
breath of elegance wafted hither by 
these effeminate pleasure-seekers. 0 
my barren and rugged shores ! 0 Na- 

ture, my stern, but truthful monitor, 
do not desert and deceive me ; give me 
back the calm and strength I have 
drawn from thee ! ” He heard the gen- 
tle, pleasant voice of Tristan below, 


talking with the carpenter, who had 
come. “ They, simple souls, are inter- 
ested and happy in their humble occu- 
pation. I will not remain here lashing 
myself with idle reproaches, while 1 
have the power to act. I too will work, 
and kill with labor these delicate re- 
pinings.” So he went down, and Jerome 
looked on with astonishment while M. 
le Comte lifted, sawed, and planed, as 
thoiigh he had been born a mechanic, 
with the necessity of earning his daily 
bread. 

All the afternoon Claude worked with 
a will ; and when it was time to receive 
his guests, everything was completed in 
the great hall, and the lamps placed 
ready to light. 

The dinner passed off admirably. 
The Curd ate and drank himself into a 
stupidity gi^eater, if possible, than his 
normal condition ; while the good wine 
served to loosen the doctor’s tongue, so 
that he became ridiculously loquacious, 
rattling on in a way that amused, if it 
did not instruct. 

Before the June sun was fairly set, 
and while Claude and his guests still 
lingered over the wine, Tristan entered 
to say that more than twenty men were 
come, who were waiting in the hall. 

When M. le Comte entered, followed 
by the Curd and the doctor, all arose, 
and, bowing respectfully, took off their 
hats, which they did not replace, — a 
mark of reverence rare among these 
men, who seldom uncovered save in the 
house of God. They were clean, though 
rough, uncombed, and unshaven ; still 
they looked intelligent, and determined 
to accomplish what they had under- 
taken. 

Among the number were a few who 
understood the most simple rudiments ; 
these Claude took under his more es- 
pecial instruction, leaving the others to ‘ 
Tristan, who gathered them around the 
blackboard, on which Claude had written 
the alphabet in large characters. 

There was something in the scene 
that suggested with power the contra- 
diction founded in life. A visible blend- 
ing of the shadowy past with the com- 
mon and practical present. Aged and 
decaying grandeur stooping to touch 
the strong hand of young poverty. 
Genius and profound knowledge side 


A CEOWN FEOM THE SPEAR. 


75 


by side, with the ignorance and sim- 
plicity of childhood. 

The great arched hall, with its faded 
tapestry, and richly carved cornice, and 
the narrow deep mullioned windows, 
showing strips of blue-black sky studded 
with stars, made a fine background 
for the figures gathered around the 
wide-mouthed fireplace, filled with a 
smouldering pile of driftwood and dried 
furze ; for even in summer the evenings 
are exceedingly chilly on the peninsula 
of Rhuys. The rude tables and benches 
were drawn around the chimney, on one 
side of which sat Claude, surrounded by 
a group of interested listeners, to whom 
he was relating some events in the past 
history of his country. There was not 
one among them who had not heard of 
the heroic struggles of La Vendee, and 
the defeat of the brave General Som- 
breuil on the sands of Quiberon. They 
also knew that the department of Mor- 
bihan had produced heroes, for the name 
of Cadoudal, the leader of the Chouans, 
had been familiar to them from their 
cradles. And they had imbibed with 
their milk the hate of their ancestors 
for the Republican generals, Hoche and 
Humbert, having all at some time made 
a pilgrimage to the Champ des Martyrs, 
on the banks of the Auray, where were 
shot the unfortunate Emigres and Roy- 
alists who composed the ill-fated expe- 
dition of Quiberon. Still they had 
received all these stories of the strug- 
gles of the past as the ignorant receive 
tradition, without inquiring into the 
succession of events that led to such 
tragic results. Now they listened open- 
mouthed and absorbed to Claude’s brief 
but lucid history of the condition of 
th^, country at that time, of the terrible 
conflict between the people and the 
court, of the degeneration, luxury, and 
vice of the monarchy, of the stern, self- 
denying, and heroic, but cruel and se- 
vere rule of the Republic, from each of 
which he gathered some simple but forci- 
ble moral to apply to the present. 

Tristan, with his deformed body raised 
to its utmost height, his head erect, and 
his haggard face spiritualized and al- 
most beautified by his earnest desire to 
make his anxious pupils understand the 
difference between c and g, wielded his 
pointer with the grace of a fashionable 


director, while he called out each letter 
in a voice that would have done credit 
to an orator. The men were all eager, 
interested, and good-natured. When 
one made a mistake, another with a 
better memory, delighted with his new 
acquirement, prompted him readily, 
while the clever individual who re- 
peated the whole alphabet correctly 
was applauded with the utmost warmth, 
at which noise, the Cure, who slum- 
bered peacefully in the corner, awoke 
with a sudden snort, and looked around 
wildly, as he muttered, “ Venite, exul- 
temus Domino,” for he thought he had 
fallen asleep, as it was his habit to do 
during the performance of mass. 

M. le Docteur, in the best possible 
humor, sat on the right hand of Claude, 
who frequently referred to him for a 
corroboration of certain historical state- 
ments, which tickled his vanity, and 
caused him to pour out his knowledge 
so freely, that the simple people, not 
understanding its spurious quality, 
looked upon him as an oracle of wis- 
dom. 

Old Janot and Nanette had come in 
with Claude’s permission, and sat hand 
in hand near the door, the old man 
grumbling now and then in a scarce 
audible voice, while the woman’s sharp 
eyes followed every movement and word 
with the utmost interest. 

When the lessons were finished, much 
to the satisfaction of all, Tristan pro- 
duced from a large basket, bread, cheese, 
and wine, which, with the assistance 
of Nanette, he placed upon the tables. 
The men seemed even more grateful for 
the simple supper than they had been 
for their intellectual feast, and all did 
ample justice to it, laughing like good- 
natured children at a not very brilliant 
hon-mot of the doctor, made at the ex- 
pense of the Cure, who was now wide 
awake. 

“ My good Tristan,” said Claude in 
a low tone, while he clasped the hunch- 
back’s hand in his, “ you think of every- 
thing to make others happy. This 
morning I came very near throwing up 
the whole matter. In fact, I was on 
the brink of a disgraceful defeat, the 
result of my own weakness and selfish- 
ness, but strength mercifully came at 
the right moment, and you, with your 


76 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


gentle care and kindness, have changed 
my discomfiture to a beautiful triumph, 
for I have seldom felt stronger and 
happier than at this moment. It is a 
reward for many trials to see these 
simple souls so contented with their 
new undertaking. We must provide 
this little supper for them every night. 
Some of them have a long walk, and 
they must not go to their beds hun- 
gry.” 

Tristan smiled his approval, and went 
on dispensing his loaves, a w’orthy dis- 
ciple of his blessed Master. 

When the last man had been lighted 
out, and the Cur4 and the doctor had 
been dismissed in the most friendly 
manner, the gate closed and barred, and 
Tristan sent to bed with many affec- 
tionate good-nights, Claude lighted a 
cigar, and went out on to the balcony in 
the most exultant state of mind. The 
weak desires of the morning were gone, 
and his soul was full of noble and gen- 
erous intentions. The rugged shore, 
the furze-clad rocks, and the poverty- 
stricken town, with its few ignorant, 
degraded inhabitants, seemed to him 
a kingdom; and his ruined desolate 
chateau seemed a royal palace, filled 
with the pride of wealth and glory. 
“ Here are strong, good hearts, with 
great possibilities ; they are worth thou- 
sands of fawning courtiers. I have won 
them, they are mine, and I will live 
for them, and raise them to a higher 
level. This old place shall be rebuilt 
and refurnished, and here I will found 
a school and a library, a free fountain 
where all may come to drink knowledge. 
Poor Sarzeau ! you shall not always be 
despised ; the birthplace of Lesage shall 
not sink into insignificance.” Then his 
thoughts recurred to the struggle of 
the morning, and he said, with a feel- 
ing of satisfaction that it was over, 
“ Almost a defeat, almost a defeat.” . 


PART FIFTH. 

CRUEL AS DEATH. 

For some days Claude had been in- 
tending to make an excursion to Lock- 
mariaker and Gavr Innes, in order to 


take some sketches and notes of these 
wonderful tumuli, Man6 Lud and Man4 
Ar Groach. On the morning after his 
first effort of regeneration he arose with 
a clear head and buoyant heart, took a 
hearty breakfast and his sketch-book, 
and started on his excursion. When 
he passed out through the great hall he 
found Tristan already engaged with his 
ragged herd, who surrounded him with 
the most affectionate familiarity, while 
he explained to them the puzzling com- 
bination of letters to form words that 
expressed the most common things. As 
Claude came down the steps, singing 
Aprh la hataille^ with a light voice and 
smiling face, Tristan left his seat, say- 
ing, “ Ah, monsieur, you are happy 
this morning, your face is full of sun- 
shine. I will pray that it may last for- 
ever.” 

“ And I, too, will pray, Tristan. 
Adieu until night,” he replied, as he 
threw a handful of small coin among 
the children, laughing, as he went out, 
to see them scramble for it. 

“ What new trouble is coming 1 ” said 
Tristan, looking after him as he crossed 
the court. “ I would rather not see him 
too happy, he is always sorrowful after- 
ward. I hope he will return as gay as 
he goes out.” The poor fellow’s wish 
was in vain, for his master did not re- 
turn as gay as he went out. 

When Claude reached the gate, Janot 
opened it slowly, saying, “Ah, M. le 
Comte, you are as bright as a young gal- 
lant this morning, but remember, mon- 
sieur, that a clear sunrise often makes 
a cloudy evening.” 

“ I know it, you old raven, without 
being reminded of it,” returned Claude, 
good-naturedly. “You act upon My 
spirits hke fog from the Bay of Biscay. 
When the sun shines, don’t cloud it with 
your gloomy prophecies. Wait until 
night comes.” And with these sugges- 
tive words he closed the gate and walked 
away with a light step. Four miles of 
rough road brought him to the Butte de 
Tumiac, where he entered the small 
chamber and examined with curiosity 
the strange Celtic monuments. It was 
a dim, weird place, and brought to his 
mind the many supernatural tales of 
his childhood, told by his nurse, who 
was a native of Auray. Somewhat 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


77 


cliilled and depressed he passed out 
through the narrow, dark passage into 
the sunlight, and found old Joseph, the 
boatman, waiting to row him over to 
Lockmariaker. It was a glorious morn- 
ing, and as the boat cut the shining wa- 
ter, throwing from her bow little clouds 
of foam that broke into a dozen tiny 
rainbows ere they fell, Claude’s spirit 
shook off the dreary influence of the 
gloomy chamber haunted with the shad- 
ows of vanished barbarians, and he en- 
joyed thoroughly the beauty of the 
scene. He had always looked upon 
the broken shore as dreary and gray, 
but now it seemed softened by the sun- 
light and the translucent air into a 
thousand tender tints. The rough, 
heath-topped cliffs gleamed like ame- 
thyst framed in agate of every hue. 
The sands of the shore ran golden to 
the blue of the sea ; the jutting rocks 
threw soft shadows over the tiny islands 
that lay like scattered jewels at the feet 
of a king ; the sea-birds, startled from 
their nests in the rocks, wheeled and 
floated, dipping the tips of their white 
wings in the foam dashed from the 
oars of the rower, while they replied to 
their mates in clear, shrill tones that 
did homage to the beauty of nature 
as eloquently as does the voice of 
man. 

“I rowed a party over yesterday,” 
said Joseph, when he had made about 
half the distance between the Butte de 
Tumiac and Lockmariaker, “ and here 
I was obliged to rest on my oars for the 
view, which they all pronounced best 
from this point, and 1 believe it is so ; 
for before us is the Morbihan, Gavr 
Innes, the estuary of the Auray, and 
Lockmariaker. Look behind, if you 
please, monsieur, and you can see the 
bay and peninsulas of Quiberon and 
Rhuys, with the old al)bey of St. Hildas 
at the summit of the cliff. I think this 
is the only spot where all these points 
can be seen at once.” 

“ It is fine,” said Claude, standing up 
and looking off in the direction of St. 
Gildas. “ As many times as I have 
crossed, I never before noticed the per- 
fection of this view.” 

“ One of the ladies spoke of i£ first. 
There are two, and both are young and 
pretty. They are at the abbey, and the 


gentlemen are in the town at La Croix 
Verte. Have you seen them, M. le 
Comte 1 ” 

“Yes,” replied Claude, “I saw them 
the night they arrived. One is old and 
the other is young; are they father 
and son 1 ” 

“ I don’t know, monsieur,” returned 
the old boatman, with a puzzled expres- 
sion, “ I could not make out the rela- 
tionship ; although I am sure one of the 
ladies is the wife of one of the gentle- 
men, yet I could not tell which she be- 
longed to. 0 monsieur ! she is beauti- 
ful, with such hair and eyes, and a face 
like an angel. This boat never carried 
anything so precious before.” 

Claude laughed at the old man’s en- 
thusiastic admiration of the fair stranger, 
and said, “ Such a lovely passenger may 
bring you good fortune, Joseph, at least 
1 hope it may.” 

“ And I hope so too, monsieur, but 
it is the good fortune to row her across 
again that is the most I ask for.” And 
with this pleasant wish Joseph bent to 
his oars and shot ahead rapidly, soon 
runing his little bark up to the rough 
pier south of Lockmariaker. 

Walking over the smooth beach, still 
moist where the tide had left it bare, 
Claude found himself looking at the 
many tracks on the sand, and wondering 
whose feet had made them, and where 
were then the beings who had left their 
footsteps behind them, only to be effaced 
by the returning tide. And then his 
thoughts reverted to the stranger with 
lovely hair and a face that old Joseph 
likened to an angel’s. “ She passed 
over this same spot yesterday,” he said, 
“ but here is no impress of a Paris boot ; 
how absurd ! how should there be, when 
the tide has ebbed and flowed twice 
since then 1 Of course if she is young 
and lovely she is fashionable and frivo- 
lous. It must have been her hand which 
I saw at the window of St. Gildas. I 
wish I could have seen her face ; ah well, 
it might have been less fair than her 
hand.” Then like the sudden change 
of a kaleidoscope there came before his 
mental vision a slight, girlish figure in 
a nun’s gown and serge veil, her yellow 
hair hidden under folds of white linen, 
her slim hands crossed over a crucifix. 
The contrast between that sad, quiet 


78 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


form and the active, joyous girl who 
the day before had walked over the 
shining beach with the fresh wind blow- 
ing her dress and hair, made his heart 
ache, until it seemed again as though 
cruel fingers had pressed upon it. “0 
Celeste ! Celeste ! ” he thought, “ if we 
two were but sitting on this breezy 
shore watching together the tide flow 
out, leaving the shining sands at our 
feet, or if we two were but sleeping 
together in the quiet breast of yonder 
sunlit isle, our bodies forever at rest, 
and our souls in peace with God ! But 
thou art worse than dead to me, thou 
art entombed forever from my sight, 
and I am here alone to regret thee.” 
Bashing away the tears that trembled 
on his lashes, he turned from the shore 
and took the direction toward the Mon- 
tague de la F6e. After exploring the 
stone chambers, and copying some of 
the hieroglyphics, which no one has 
ever yet deciphered, he examined with 
the minutest care the mysterious mon- 
uments, which have so puzzled the 
learned in trying to determine whether 
they were erected by Roman or Celt, 
or whether they were memorials of re- 
ligious rites or military power. When 
he had wearied himself to no purpose 
over these inexplicable traces of a van- 
ished race and a lost language, he entered 
the Mane Lud, whose stone chamber is 
covered with characters still more per- 
plexing than any other. There he sat 
down on a flat stone and mentally re- 
viewed all he had read and heard on the 
subject, striving to glean some hint 
from the history and traditions of the 
past, to find in the curious inscriptions 
some resemblance to Cufic or Egyptian 
hieroglyphics; but it was in vain, he 
could not trace the slightest analogy 
either in form or arrangement. Weary, 
confused, and discouraged, he walked 
back to the shore, and was rowed over 
to Gavr Innes. It was now long after 
midday, and the heavens had clouded 
over while he had been dreaming away 
the sunshine in the gloomy chamber of 
Man4 Lud. 

When the boat grated on the beach 
of Gavr Innes, Joseph said, “You will 
please not be long at the tumulus, 
monsieur, for the wind is rising and 
setting out from the shore, and if it 


should continue to increase I shall have 
a hard fight to reach La Butte.” 

Claude did not intend to remain long 
when he entered the stone gallery, but 
the time passed more rapidly than he 
thought, in the new interest he found 
here, so totally different from that of 
Man4 Lud. The twenty-seven pillars, 
covered with singular sculptured devices 
of serpents and battle-axes, represented 
the warlike weapons or religious emblems 
of a more savage race than either early 
Roman or Celt. When he left the spot, 
which he did reluctantly, the wind had 
increased to almost a gale, the sun was 
hidden by a veil of dense clouds, and 
the waves drove furiously against the 
shore. 

Joseph groaned more than once over 
his one oar, for Claude had taken the 
other to assist in the hard fight to 
reach La Butte, and their united 
strength was fairly exhausted when 
they glided safely into the little ha- 
ven among the rocks. 

Instead of taking the direct road to 
Sarzeau, Claude determined to walk 
along the beach to a boat-house behind 
a high promontory that offered a shel- 
ter where he could sit and watch the 
great waves dash upon the rough shore. 
He liked the sea best when it was 
lashed into fury by the angry wind. 
He felt a weird sort of pleasure in the 
shriek of the tempest, in the roar of 
the thunder, and the vivid flash of the 
lightning as it cut the heavens into 
yawning chasms and made flaming 
tracks upon the crested waves. The 
spasms of nature found a responsive 
throe within his own soul, which had 
writhed and struggled as fiercely as did 
the waves of the sea to overleap their 
bounds. But the same Voice that 
hushes nature into calm had als6 
stilled his rebellious heart and taught 
it submission. 

The storm was increasing, the wind 
came in short, angry gusts, dying away 
into momentary calm, and then with 
renewed strength driving over the lead- 
en sea, and dashing the foam-dressed 
waves high upon the invulnerable rocks. 
It was terrible rounding the promontory, 
and more than once Claude was obliged 
to turn his back to the sea, for the 
spray blinded him and the roar of the 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


79 


tempest deafened him. But the resist- 
ance cf Yv'ind and wave could not turn 
him from his purpose, for fate held him 
by the hand and led him resolutely 
tov/ard his destiny. So he toiled on 
until the point was turned and he came 
into a little haven of calm. 

It was a long stretch of beach, where 
were usually two or three boats drawn 
up beyond the line of the tide, but 
now there was not one, and a rude 
boat-house sheltered under a great clilF, 
with high walls of rock on each side. 

Claude’s first feeling was one of re- 
lief, his second one of surprise, for at 
the farther side of the inlet, near the 
sea, stood two women. Their faces 
were turned from him. One was tall 
and strong, wrapped in a dark mantle, 
with a veil of brown serge blowing back 
from her hat. The other was slighter, 
and her dress was of pale blue, over 
which was gathered a shawl of scarlet 
and white. The only veil' she wore was 
her yellow hair, that streamed far be- 
hind her, torn from its fastenings by 
the wind. Her head was bowed in her 
hands, and she seemed to be weeping 
bitterly ; while her companion, with her 
arm around her, was looking stead- 
fastly out on the sea. Claude followed 
her gaze, and there, struggling with the 
terrible waves, some distance from the 
shore, he saw a tiny boat in which were 
two men, who were either exhausted or 
unacquainted with their oars ; for the 
little thing danced and whirled like a 
cork, sometimes lost to sight, and then 
reappearing on the top of a crested 
wave, only to vanish the next moment 
into a terrible chasm that threatened 
to ingulf it. 

Claude saw it but for an instant, but 
in that instant he knew that unless aid 
reached them they must perish ; and 
he also understood the danger in at- 
tempting to save them. Nevertheless 
he said firmly, “I will try, and God 
will help me.” Then he turned toward 
the women, who had not seen him, for 
the first impulse of his tender heart 
was to comfort and reassure them be- 
fore he started on his perilous under- 
taking. They heard his footsteps, and 
both turned toward him, startled and 
surprised. He saw but one ; for in that 
moment all else of heaven and earth 


was blotted out, and she seemed to 
stand alone, enveloped in dull, gray 
clouds. “ Celeste, Celeste ! ” he cried, 
in a voice that seemed to ring out like 
a bell above the roaring of the sea, as 
he sprang toward her with outstretched 
arms. Then the cloud seemed to en- 
close her like a wall, as she drew back 
from him with something of the expres- 
sion of fear and anguish that had 
stamped her face that day, five years 
before, when they parted in the rose- 
garden at Monthelon. 

There are moments that leave their 
impress upon our whole lives, — mo- 
ments that seem to wrench reason from 
us at one grasp; that stifle, bewilder, 
and blind us. We call the sensation 
faintness, but it is a taste of death, a 
drop of poison that works in our veins 
long after, and finally chills the crimson 
flood. We know by the coldness, pal- 
lor, and stony expression of many 
around us, that they have been touched 
with death, although they may not die 
until long after. 

Claude dashed his hand over his face, 
and murmured, “ My God ! Am I dy- 
ing 1 I cannot see.” Then with a 
superhuman strength he struggled back 
to himself, and said with painful calm- 
ness, “ Celeste, listen to me for one 
moment, and do not look at me with 
fear ; indeed, you have no cause to fear 
me.” 

“ 0 Claude ! I do not fear you,” she 
cried, — “I do not fear you. I have 
wronged you deeply. Can you forgive 
me for my cruelty and injustice 'I Can 
you forgive me, and save himl” point- 
ing to the boat. “ My husband is 
there struggling with death. Can you 
save him 'I ” . 

“ Your husband, ^our husband,” he 
repeated slowly, but with a voice of 
rising wrath as he drew back from her, 
still keeping his eyes, filled with pas- 
sion, fixed upon her pallid face. “ No ! 
no ! ” burst from his white lips at last, 
with a force that made them tremble, — 
“ no, no, I will not save him. Leave me 
before I curse you ; false and faithless 
thing, you have ruined my life, and 
now you implore me to save your hus- 
band. No, no ; he might die a thou- 
sand deaths and I would not stretch 
out my hand to save him from one.” 


80 


A CROWN FEOM THE SPEAR. 


‘‘ 0 Claude, Claude, pity me ! ” she 
entreated. “ 0 Elizabeth ! ” she cried, 
turning to the girl, who still watched 
the boat with an intense gaze, “it is 
Claude, Claude de Clermont, who so 
cruelly reproaches me. We were children 
together ; we loved each other ; but 
you know all ; I told you all long ago. 
Once I would not have prayed in vain 
for his aid, but now he has no pity for 
me. Elizabeth, speak to him. I de- 
serve his anger, but you have never 
doubted and despised him, and turned 
from him when he was suffering, as I 
once did. Elizabeth, speak to him, he 
will listen to you.” 

The girl turned toward Claude, who 
stood with his eyes fixed on the sands at 
his feet, like one stupefied by a sudden 
blow. Something in the tones of pitiful 
entreaty touched him, for he looked up 
as she said, “ 0 monsieur, my father is 
in the boat, he is all I have on earth. 
Will you try to save him 1 ” 

“ Your father and her husband. If 
I save one, I must save both.” 

“ Yes,” she repeated, “ if you save 
one, you must save both.” 

“ It is as cruel as death,” he cried, 
wringing his hands, and raising his 
eyes to the angry heavens, — “it is as 
cruel as death; but what matters for 
one pang more 1 0 my Cod, I look to 

thee ; do not abandon me in this mo- 
ment of agony. Give me strength to 
save her husband or to die with him ; 
for if I survive him, the memory of his 
death will rest forever upon my soul.” 
A vivid flash of lightning illuminated 
his pallid face, and wrapped him for an 
instant in flame. It seemed as though 
God had touched him, so suddenly did 
the passion die out of his heart, leav- 
ing a profound calm that was almost 
joy. In that supreme moment he did 
not hear the roar of the thunder, the 
shriek of the wind, nor the dash of 
the waves, for an unbroken silence 
seemed to infold him like a white cloud, 
and his heart was melted into infinite 
pity. He looked at Celeste as she 
stood before him, drenched with the 
spray, her face white with anguish, 
her eyes swollen with weeping, and her 
long, fair hair blown pitilessly by the 
wind, and a new conviction filled his 
soul with remorse, for he felt how she 


too must have suffered, — suffered 
through him and for him ; and he had 
cruelly reproached her, and caused her 
still more pain. Five years before, she 
had fled from him in terror, deaf to 
the entreaties of his heart, she had fled 
from him to bury herself, as he believed, 
forever, in a living tomb; and he had 
since then looked upon her as dead to 
him and the world. Now she stood 
before him on this lonely shore of Qui- 
beron, entreating him to save her 
husband. And he, through divine 
strength could say from the very depths 
of his being, “ My life is his and yours, 
use it as you will.” 

With sublime self-renunciation and 
deep compassion filling his heart, he 
turned toward Celeste, and holding 
out his hand he said, gently, “ Celeste, 
forgive me for my cruel words ; I was 
mad with passion or I could not have 
reproached you. I love you at this mo- 
ment better than I have ever loved you 
before. Remember, I say better; for 
now I love you with no thought of self. 
I will save your husband, or I will die 
with him.” 

She seized his hand and covered it 
with tears and kisses, sobbing, “ O 
Claude, Claude, forgive me ! ” 

“ One only thing, Celeste, before I 
go to what may be death. Do you be- 
lieve me innocent of the crime you once 
thought I had committed 1 ” 

“ I have long believed you innocent. 
Forgive me, I loved you then, I love 
you always ; but I was deceived by an- 
other, and blinded by my childish grief. 
I entreat your forgiveness.” And, over- 
come by her emotion, she buried her 
face in her hands, and burst into sobs. 

“ It is enough,” he said with a smile 
that was almost happy. “Now I can 
face danger with a strong heart.” 

Elizabeth stood with her arms around 
her weeping companion, but her eyes 
were fixed on the boat with an expres- 
sion of terrible anguish. “ It will be 
impossible to reach them in this dread- 
ful sea. You will lose your life, and you 
will not save theirs. God help us ! 
what shall we do 1 ” she cried, wringing 
her hands and weeping with Celeste. 

“ I will make the attempt. Pray for 
me that I may not fail,” said Claude, 
throwing aside his coat and hat. “ If I 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


81 


can reach the boat, I can save them.” 
He took the hand of Celeste, and pressed 
it reverently to his lips, raised his eyes 
to heaven and made the sign of the 
cross, saying, “Pray for me, Celeste, pray 
for me.” Then rushing down the beach 
he plunged into the midst of a retreat- 
ing w^ave, and was carried at one dash 
far out toward the boat. He saw with 
the clearness that is sometimes given us 
in times of extreme need, that his only 
chance of reaching the boat depended 
upon taking advantage of such a mo- 
ment, when the turbulent waves could 
aid him more than his own strength 
and experience. If he could but gain 
the boat, and get the oars into his own 
hands, he might save them by his skill 
in rowing, which was more necessary in 
such a sea than even courage and en- 
durance. 

The two unhappy women watched 
the wave carry him far out and toss him 
upon its summit as though he were but 
a feather ; then they saw him struggling 
against the incoming billows that hid 
him entirely from their sight. They 
strained their eyes into the fast-gather- 
ing twilight, their anxiety divided be- 
tween the solitary swimmer and the ex- 
hausted men in the unmanageable boat. 
Now again they saw Claude, borne 
upon the summit of the next receding 
■wave, striking out boldly and fearlessly, 
while right before him rose up a solid 
wall of water that curled forward with 
a hissing roar, dashing over both boat 
and swimmer, and hiding them entirely 
from the sight of the terrified watchers. 

“My God!” cried Elizabeth, with 
blanched cheeks, “ I fear they are all 
lost.” 

“ Oh, oh I ” moaned Celeste, covering 
her face from the anger of the sea. “ I 
have sent him to death.” 

“ Mother of God ! have mercy upon 
them ! ” implored both, as wave after 
wave broke at their feet. 

For a few moments they strained 
their eyes in vain ; then Elizabeth cried 
joyfully, “ I see the boat, and it is 
nearer.’^ 

“And beyond, is not that Claudel” 
said Celeste. “ Look, I pray, has he not 
passed the boat 1 Is not that his head 
beyond the foam of yonder large wave 1 ” 

Alas ! it was true. An advancing 
6 


I billow had brought the boat nearer the 
shore, but returning it took the swim- 
mer with it, and the next dashed the 
little bark again far beyond Claude. 
Baffled, tossed, hurled here and there, 
it seemed as though both must perish. 

Another moment of terrible suspense, 
another moment of despair, while they 
again lost sight of both, and then a re- 
treating wave showed them the boat 
still farther away, but Claude was with- 
in a few yards of it swimming vigor- 
ously. A cry of joy from Elizalieth, a 
sob of thanksgiving from Celeste, told 
that he had reached the little bark, 
and was being assisted into it by the 
eager hands of the almost hopeless men. 
Again it w^as lost to sight, to appear a 
moment after on the swell of a billow. 
Claude had the oars and was swaying 
back and forth with the long, dexterous 
strokes that brought it bounding above 
the waves straight and sure toward 
the shore. A moment after, with a roar 
and dash of the surf, the boat was 
thrown far upon the beach, and Claude, 
throwing down his oars, sprang, followed 
by the two strangers of La Croix Verte, 
almost into the arms of Elizabeth and 
Celeste. 

The two women with a cry of joy 
threw themselves upon the breast of 
the eldest man, and sobbed, hiding their 
faces with their hands, while he clasped 
and caressed them both. 

“ His wife and his daughter,” thought 
Claude, stooping to pick up his coat and 
hat. “In their joy they have no 
thoughts of me. It is well. Thank 
God, I have saved him and made her 
happy ! ” Then without another glance 
at the excited group he hurried around 
the promontory, and climbing up the 
rocks, dripping with water, exhausted 
with his struggle, and overpowered with 
conflicting emotions, he threw himself 
upon a furze-covered bank, and burying 
his face in his hands wept with the 
abandon and passion of a woman. 


PART SIXTH. 

THE GRATITUDE OF A POET. 

When Claude reaehed the gate of the 
chateau it was already dark, and the 


82 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


men were assembled in the hall anxious- 
ly awaiting his arrival. After hastily 
changing his wet garments for some dry 
ones, he entered with his usual quiet 
manner and grave smile. But Tristan, 
who had looked deeper than the others 
into his master’s heart, saw that he had 
not returned as he went out, and he 
also surmised that he had sung Aiwh la 
hataille too soon, for there were evident 
traces of another and a more sei’ious 
engagement than that of the preceding 
day. Still he was very calm and pa- 
tient, declining firmly but gently Na- 
nette’s pressing invitation to partake of 
the supper which was waiting, and dis- 
regarding Tristan’s anxious suggestions 
that he had better not remain in the 
hall, being too tired to talk with the 
men that night. He went through his 
voluntary duties with apparently the 
same interest as that of the night be- 
fore, and there even seemed a deeper 
earnestness in his advice, an undertone 
of tenderness and sympathy in his en- 
couragement, that touched the heart of 
every man among them with a rever- 
ence as deep as their affection was sin- 
cere. From the spear of anguish he 
had won the crown of their love ; a 
simple crown, it is true, looking at it 
with earthly eyes ; but who can tell what 
bright gems may appear when it is 
brought into the effulgent light of 
eternity 1 

When Tristan spread the simple re- 
past, Claude excused himself and retired, 
with their hearty good-nights and 
kind wishes sounding gratefully in his 
ears. In his room Nanette had placed 
his supper, which he partook of spar- 
ingly ; then he closed his door, extin- 
guished his light, and, throwing himself 
upon his bed, communed with his 
own soul and was still. 

The next morning when Claude arose 
there remained no trace of the tempest 
of the previous day ; the air was clear, 
and crisp, the sky without a cloud, and 
the sea as blue and placid as though 
the rough breath of the wind had never 
swept it to rugged wrath, as though it 
had never betrayed its trust, never en- 
gulfed an unwilling victim, never in- 
folded within its beguiling bosom, a 
thousand hopes and joys. “ Ah, Nature ! 
thou hast thy moods of passion and an- 


guish, as well as humanity,” he exclaimed ; 
for ho remembered how he had gone 
forth in the morning with smiles and 
sunshine, and how he had returned at 
night with tears and clouds. “ Can it 
be the same sea into which I plunged 
to conquer it or perish. It was a cruel 
struggle, but, thanks be to God, with 
the waves of death around me I was 
happier than ever before. 0 Celeste, 
my darling ! in eternity thou wilt know 
how I have trampled upon ray heart.” 
He felt a strong desire to see again the 
scene of his suffering and his triumph, 
the spot where she had stood weeping 
and trembling before him, where she 
had said, “ I love you always,” and 
where he in return had laid the greatest 
treasure a man has to give, his life, at 
her feet. When he reached the little 
inlet, there \vas no trace of the tragic 
scene of the previous night, save the 
broken boat dashed high upon the shore, 
and near it a band of blue ribbon with 
a few yellow hairs fastened into the 
knot. “ The wind tore it from her pre- 
cious head to give to me,” he cried, 
pressing it with strong passion to' his 
lips. There was a subtle odor of violets 
about it ; he remembered that it Jiad 
always been her favorite perfume ; and 
while he looked at it a thousand tender 
memories filled his heart, a thousand 
sweet longings stirred the very depths 
of his soul. His thoughts leaped the 
chasm of time and distance, and he be- 
lieved himself to be again at Clermont, 
wandering through the laurel-shaded 
walks with the hand of Celeste clasped 
in his. He lived over again the brief 
days of their love, he felt the timid 
pressure of the first kiss, the soft eyes 
seemed to look into his with shy delight, 
the waves of her hair to blow across his 
cheek. Then a new emotion sprung to 
life within him ; paternal yearnings 
strong and sweet, filled his soul ; little 
children’s hands seemed to tug at his 
heart-strings, and baby faces seemed to 
fill the air around him. Celeste married 
and perhaps a mother, — what an angel 
of maternity ! For a moment he forgot 
that another, and not he, was her hus- 
band ; and so lost was he in the tender 
revery that he did not hear approaching 
footsteps until some one spoke his name ; 
then, like a detected culprit, he hastily 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


83 


concealed the ribbon, as he turned a 
glowing face upon the new-comer. It 
was the younger man of the two whom 
he had rowed to the shore the previous 
day, who, holding out his hand to Claude, 
said with a frank, pleasant smile, “ Al- 
low me, M. le Comte, to express this 
morning the gratitude that we should 
have given free utterance to last night 
if you had not deprived us of the pleas- 
ure by disappearing so mysteriously.” 

Claude took the proftered hand" cor- 
dially; but said, gravely, “Do not w^aste 
gratitude on me ; give it to a mightierl 
than I, without whose aid I too should 
have perished.” Then seeing his com-, 
panion looked rather disconcerted at the* 
seriousness of his reply, he added in a; 
lighter tone, “ You have, monsieur, a 
decided advantage over me, as I have 
not the honor of knowing your title.” ^ 

“ My name is simply Philip Raymond,' 
and a most ridiculous misnomer it is, as 
I am neither fond of horses nor a pow-' 
erful protector, still I am vain enough 
to think it is not quite unknown to you.” 

Claude, with no little confusion, po- 
litely assured him that he had the 
pleasure of hearing it then for the first 
time. 

“Ah,” he laughed, “another death- 
blow to my egotism. Then you have 
never read ‘Sabrina’ or ‘Thamyris,’ both 
of which have been translated into your 
language 1 ” 

Claude regretted to say that he never 
had. 

“ From that I presume, M. le Comte, 
that you are not acquainted with the 
recent literature of England, nor with 
the literary circles of Paris.” 

Claude assured him that he knew 
nothing of the modern literature of 
England, and that he had not been in 
Paris for some years. In fact, he was 
not familiar with the fashionable world, 
having lived for the last five years en- 
tirely among the mountains and on 
the sea-coasts with shepherds, peasants, 
and fishermen. 

“ Vraiment exclaimed Raymond, in 
very West End French, looking at Claude 
wdth wide-open eyes ; “ well, you are 
certainly an original. Lot us sit here,” 
pointing to a flat stone that offered a 
comfortable seat, “for I have a great 
deal to say, and I never can talk w^ell 


, standing. I frankly avow that it is 
rather mortifying to my self-esteem to 
find that you don’t know as much of 
me as I do of you. But how can I be 
so absurd as to expect a Frenchman, 
perched in an old chateau on the penin- 
sula of Rhuys, to know about every 
English fellow who scribbles, and whose 
name is fashionable in the saloons of Paris'? 
Now we have learned from Le Proprie- 
taire de la Croix Verte, after describing 
the heroic stranger who swam off so 
boldly to save us from total destruction, 
that it could be no other than M. le 
Comte de Clermont, owner of the tum- 
bledown chateau on the hill, who leaves 
a fine estate in Normandy to rove around 
Brittany, feeding and educating dirty 
children, fishermen, peasants, and in 
short all the canaille who cross his 
path.” 

Claude laughed heartily, relieved to 
know that neither of the ladies had 
spoken of the scene that passed before 
he swam off to the rescue, and that at 
least Raymond had never heard of his 
previous engagement to Celeste, nor of 
the tragedy of Chateau de Clermont, and 
said, laying his hand on the shoulder of 
liis companion as a token of good-will, 

“ Well, mon ami^ is what you have 
heard of my eccentricities any reason 
for discontinuing an acquaintance begun 
under such heart-stirring circumstan- 
ces % ” 

“ Ah, no indeed, my brave fellow ! 
you are a jewel that I have found here 
on the sands of this dreary shore, 'which 
I shall wear upon my heart forever. 
Or, in plain language, my gratitude and 
my admiration of your courage make 
me desire your friendship as the greatest 
of treasures.” 

Claude did not reply at once ; he felt 
unaccountably drawn to this young man, 
who, he thought, must be in some way 
related to the husband of Celeste ; 
through him he could learn much that 
he wished to knowq and, beside, his 
frank and vivacious manner pleased 
him ; yet he did not wish to encourage 
a friendship under false pretences, for 
he could not accept the confidence of 
any man without giving his own in 
return. Seeing his companion waited 
for some acquiescence on his part, he 
said, “ Monsieur Raymond, I do not 


84 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


admit that I have any claims upon 
your gratitude or admiration, and per- 
haps you may even think me unworthy 
your esteem when you know something 
of my history. I am exiled from my 
estate by the suspicion of a horrible 
crime, of which I am innocent, but I 
have no means of proving it. I can 
make no further explanation. Do you 
still wdsh for my friendship?” 

‘‘ I do,” replied the other, warmly, 
“without explanation or extenuation. 
I like you, and that is enough.” 

“Will you tell me,” said Claude, a 
little nervously, “ who your companion 
of yesterday is, and what relationship 
you bear to him % ” 

“ None whatever but the relation 
of a family friendship. Sir Edward 
Courtnay was a fellow-student with my 
father. He introduced me into Parisian 
society, and to his daughter Elizabeth, 
and I am in love with both, and both 
are ungrateful for not returning my 
affection. Society flatters me and 
abuses me at the same time. It calls 
me a boor, and yet it courts me. The 
grand ladies of the Faubourg St. Ger- 
main ask me to scribble verses in their 
albums, and make grimaces behind my 
back while I am doing it j and the 
leaders of the demi monde invite me 
to their little suppers, simply because 
I amuse them ; for they know I have 
no money to squander on opera-boxes 
and bouquets. 0 monsieur ! the world 
of Paris is a queer world, but it is 
Elizabeth, it is Elizabeth, that tries me 
beyond endurance. She heats me to a 
flame with her beauty and goodness, 
and then she chills me with her cold, 
calm, conventual w^ays. I knew her 
when I w'as a child, and I used to steal 
my grandmother’s choicest roses to give 
her ; she was a little tyrant then, and 
made me cry often wdth her caprices. 
Her mother died, and then her father, 
who has been all his life a lounger 
about Paris, and who has squandered 
two or three fortunes, first his own, 
then his wdfe’s, and lastly any one’s else 
that he could lay his spendthrift hands 
upon, came and took her away to a 
French school. There she formed a 
strong attachment for the present Lady 
Courtnay, who had been inveigled into 
the same convent wdth her — Notre Dame 


de Rouen, I think it was — against her 
own inclination, through the wiles of 
her guardian, w^ho is a bishop, or some- 
thing of the sort, and who doubtless 
wished to get her fortune for the Church. 
The poor girl made a confidante of 
Elizabeth, wEo took her under her 
strong protection, and wrote such j^iti- 
ful letters to her papa about her much- 
abused and lovely protegee, that Sir 
Edward was interested, and made a 
visit to his daughter for the first time, 
when he succeeded in getting a glimpse 
of the fair Celeste. Her beauty charmed 
him, and the remainder of her fortune, 
that had escaped the clutches of the 
Church, won him. When Elizabeth had 
finished her education. Mademoiselle 
Monthelon’s two novitiate years were 
just ended ; and refusing to take the 
veil she was allowed to depart, after 
making a handsome donation to the 
order. Her guardian, finding she w^as 
stubborn and would not be a nun, 
raised no objection to her marriage 
with Sir Edward Courtnay, which took 
place two years ago.” 

“ Poor girl,” sighed Claude, — “ poor 
girl.” 

“ Yes, you may w^ell say that, for 
entre nous he is a great rascal, and I 
hate him h V outrance ; but he was my 
father’s friend, and I love Elizabeth, 
and so I let him live. He has spent 
every pound of his daughter’s fortune, 
and now he is making ducks and drakes 
of the remainder of his wife’s ; and very 
soon both poor things will be left with 
nothing. I am a miserably careless 
fellow myself, with very little good in 
me, but there is still enough left to 
make me despise a man who robs a 
woman.” 

“ Can nothing be done,” inquired 
Claude, sadly, “ to secure to her what 
remains ? ” 

“ Nothing ; her father left all to her 
unconditionally, and she gives it to him. 
She is a child with no strength nor 
decision of character ; and my glorious 
Elizabeth watches over her as though 
she were her daughter, instead of being 
her step-mother. There is something 
touching in their friendship for each 
other.” 

“ She must be a noble character and 
a very angel of goodness,” exclaimed 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


85 


Claude with so much warmth that Ray- 
mond looked at him jealously, and then 
continued with some bitterness in his 
tone, — 

“ 0 yes, she is all goodness to every 
one but me ; she is a slave to her 
father's tyranny and Lady Celeste’s 
whims. But to mo she is an icicle, and 
yet I love her better than life.” 

“ Perhaps, with all her indifference, 
she loves you,” suggested Claude ; “ but 
your careless principles may shock her, 
or her motives of prudence may prevent 
her from expressing what she feels.” 

“It may, be, for it is true that I am 
a good-for-nothing, and there is little 
in me for a noble woman to love. 
Sometimes I think circumstances have 
made me what I am,” he went on, re- 
flectively gathering together a mound 
of sea-weed and shells with the point 
of his stick. “You must know that we 
are all the slaves of circumstances. 
Prosperity is a beguiling, and Fortune 
a fickle jade. I am a living proof of 
their inconstancy. When I began 
life my heart was pure and my way 
was just, I was a very child in con- 
fidence and truth. My dear old grand- 
mother, God bless her soul, brought 
me up a thorough muff; my mother 
died at my birth ; and my father, who 
Avas an only child, was soon after killed 
in an engagement in India, where he 
Avas at that time stationed ; and I was 
sent home, a little bundle of linen and 
tears, to the dear old lady, who took me 
to her heart as though I had been an 
angel, and educated me as though I 
had been a girl. She and the rector, 
between them, taught me crochet, 
music, and drawing, with a little smat- 
tering of Greek and Latin. The rector 

O 

Avas a sentimental spoon, and encour- 
aged my dreamy proclivities. My 
grandmother feared the cold and the 
heat for me. I never mounted a horse, 
because I might be thrown. I never 
skated, because the ice might break 
under me. I never rowed, because 1 
might be overturned and droAvned ; 
and yesterday’s exploit shows how near 
such a prediction came to being true. I 
never fenced or boxed, because I might 
twist my arms out of their sockets. I 
never ran or jumped, because my ankles 
were weak. I never played at ball or 


cricket, because my lungs Avere delicate. 
And I never touched a gun, because my 
father had been shot by one. In short, 
I did nothing but sit at my dear old 
lady’s feet and Aveep Avith her OA’-er the 
despair of Werther and the soitoaa's 
of Alonzo and Melissa. At sixteen, I 
was a thoroughly good child, what the 
Spanish call a Marcia Fernandez, a girl- 
boy. Elizabeth was my only little 
playmate, and at eighteen I Avas des- 
perately in love with her ; then she was 
taken awa}’’ to France, and for a time 
I AA^as disconsolate, but soon after a 
sweet young creature came to stay at 
the rectory, — she was an angel ready- 
made for heaven, and only lent to 
earth to show us what companionship 
Ave shall have hereafter. I loved her 
Avith the reA^erence we feel for some- 
thing holy. It was the romance of my 
life, and it opened the fountain of song 
Avithin my heart. I Avrote SAveet, sen- 
timental things, which my grand- 
mother and the rector thought quite 
equal to anything Byron Avrote in his 
youth, and which the London maga- 
zines thought worth — nothing. I can- 
not describe to you the joy, the rapture 
of the moment Avhen I shoAved my 
first printed poem to my adored Grace. 
It Avas a sonnet to herself, in praise 
of her blue eyes and flaxen hair. It 
was weak, but it Avas sweet, and pleased 
my darling. 0 my God ! that Ave 
should live to smile in contempt at the 
first pure stream of fancy, that Ave 
should liA^e to prefer the red wine of 
later years, heated and unholy Avith 
passion and vice ; but so it is, I some- 
times laugh and Aveep at the same time 
OA’er my early effusions. For another 
year I continued to send my delicate 
rose-leaves floating down the literary 
tide, to be gathered up by bread-and- 
butter misses and amorous theological 
students. Then the lilies of my fancy 
became tinged Avith purple. My heart 
Avas pierced, and the blood flowed forth, 
touching with a deeper hue the pale 
floAvers of my life. One morning, it 
Avas the last day of the year, and the 
earth was folded in a shroud of snow, 
I went to the rectory and looked for 
the last time upon my Grace before 
the heavens shut her from my sight. 
She lay in her saintly robes, for I 


86 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


swear those she wears in heaven are 
no purer, with softly closed eyes, and 
hands meekly clasped over a bunch of 
lilies upon her breast.” Here his voice 
was broken with emotion, and tears 
dimmed his eyes. “ The memory of 
that angel melts me to weeping even 
now,” he said, after a few moment’s 
silence. “Then the fountains of my 
heart were broken up, and I was 
deluged with my own passionate tears. 
The streams of fancy gushed forth with 
double force and sweetness ; alas ! now 
they are turbid and tainted. Under 
the influence of my first emotion, I 
wrote my first novel. It was a simple 
pastoral story, but it was written with 
the tears of my heart. I arose from 
my bed at night with throbbing pulses 
and feverish brain. My soul filled with 
the sorrow of my hero, I paced my 
lonely chamber and wept over the woes 
I portrayed. I wrote it with a single 
heart, a pure desire, a fervent love. It 
was the truest thing I ever did, and yet 
the world was blind to its truth. I 
found a publisher, and sent it forth 
Avith the prayers and hopes that a 
mother sends after her first-born. It 
attracted little attention, the critics 
handled it grudgingly, neither condemn- 
ing nor approving, and its few readers 
were clergymen’s daughters, gover- 
nesses, and boarding-school misses. I 
do not know whether the publishers 
sold enough to compensate themselves, 
I only know that I received nothing. 
Yet I was not discouraged. I kept on 
with my fugitive verses, infusing into 
them a little more strength and color, 
until now and then came a faint breath 
of approval from the autocrats of the 
press. Then my dear old grandmother 
died, and left me her slender income. 
I sold the cottage where I had dreamed 
away my rose-leaf existence, and, fol- 
lowed by the blessings of the good 
spoon who had turned me out a weak- 
ling, I set my face toward London. 
There a new world opened before me. 
I plunged into a fountain of life that 
invigorated me. My soul was filled 
with ardor. I burned to see, to know, 
to experience all. I desired to taste 
of every emotion. I poured out the 
red wine of my life freely like water, 
and the parched sands drank it greedily. 


I wrote passionately, but with enough 
of truth to keep me from jiopularity 
and wealth. For a year I whirled in 
the bewildering vortex of fashion and 
dissipation, and in that year 1 spent all ; 
I was bankrupt in all but truth. I 
swore I would not prostitute my talent 
for filthy lucre ; I scorned the tempting 
offers of sensational journalists and un- 
scrupulous publishers ; but at last, at 
last, there remained but this,” — making 
a cipher in the sand, — “ and I was too 
proud to beg, and loved life too well to 
starve, so I was obliged to defile and 
sell what God had given to me. My 
cheeks burning with shame, I strung 
together my first collection of false 
gems ; I will admit that there were a 
few true ones among them, but only 
enough to make the paste more glaring. 
The world received them and went 
frantic over them. One morning, like 
Byron, I awoke and found myself 
famous. Honors flowed in upon me, 
I was the flattered pet of the heau monde. 
Titled ladies bowed to me, and showed 
their false teeth in dazzling smiles, and 
swore to the sweetest lies, declaring 
that my poems were divine, and avowed 
that if they were immoral the im- 
moralities were so nicely veiled that 
they could not discover them. The 
demi monde lauded me, and applauded 
the courage with which I paraded my 
wanton fancies, protested that my ideas 
were deliciously fresh and original, and 
assured me of their warmest support. 
The critics pounced upon me like vul- 
tures upon their prey ; fhere was some- 
thing pungent, flagrant, and material 
for them to tear in pieces, for the 
delectation of their minions ; they fought 
vigorously over the unworth}" carcass, 
some denouncing, some defending, and 
all devouring eagerly the choicest mor- 
sels. The pulpit opened its batteries 
upon me, the high-toned and daintA', 
firing small and well-selected shot, 
while the coarser and more truthful 
thundered out volley jafter volley of 
indiscriminate projectiles ; and indig- 
nant matrons styled my songs the 
bowlings of a loosened demon that 
walked the pure earth to blight it. 
But all their fierce censure did not 
crush me. On the contrary, I became 
more popular. Straight upon this cx- 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


87 


cited sea of public opinion I launched 
another novel, entitled ‘Dragon’s Teeth.’ 
The publishers quarrelled over it, one 
outbidding the other like sporting-men 
at the sale of a fancy horse. The highest 
bidder became its godfather, and it 
was ushered into the literary world 
with paeans and shouts and flourish 
of trumpets, and received with all the 
demonstrations that should have hon- 
ored the advent of a work of great 
genius, and yet I do not exaggerate 
when I say it was trash. It was worse, 
it was claptrap. It was manufactured 
sentiment. It cost neither thought nor 
emotion. I wrote it with dull head and 
unsteady hand, after a night of de- 
bauchery. It was composed of the 
vilest material, the most improbable 
scenes, decorated with the most glaring- 
tinsel, and befouled with the falsest 
sophistry. Even the title had not the 
remotest connection with the talc. It 
was all sensational, all false ; and yet, as 
I told you, it was received with eager- 
ness, and sold with astonishing rapidity, 
establishing my reputation as an author 
of undoubted genius ; and yet there 
were hours when I wept with shame 
over my debased talents, despising my- 
self when I compared my gaudily decked 
deception with my first pure creation 
that the w’orld had allowed to fall 
unacknowledged into a premature grave. 
Pardon me, perhaps I weary you with 
my long story ? ” 

“ Not at all,” replied Claude. “ Pray, 
go on ; I am interested to know why 
you left such brilliant success in Lon- 
don, to live in Paris.” 

“ Yes, certainly, that is the denoue- 
ment without which the miserable his- 
tory is incomplete. I spent money 
faster than I earned it. You know the 
result, facilis descensus Averni^' he con- 
tinued, looking contemplatively at the 
sand, whereon he was drawing, with 
the point of his stick, a tolerably good 
caricature of himself flying from a long- 
legged dun with a bundle of bills under 
his arm. “ Now this explains it,” he 
said, finishing it off with a flourishing 
scroll proceeding from his own mouth, 
on which he wTote in large letters, ah 
inconvenienti. “Do you understand? 
It is not convenient to be locked up, 
when one depends on his circulation for 


his life, so I thought the Continent the 
best place for me. Here I live a sort 
of Bohemian existence ; sometimes lux- 
uriously, sometimes very simply ; but 
always within the income I receive 
from my publishers. One thing I have 
sworn, and to that I intend to keep. 
It is to avoid debt as one would a pes- 
tilence. It has ruined me, and blighted 
me worse than the leprosy ; for it has 
not only driven me from my people, 
but it has driven me from my country. 
If it were not for debt, I might return 
to England and settle down into a 
decent member of society ; then per- 
haps Elizabeth would listen to me.” 

“ I think,” said Claude, earnestly, 
“you might settle down respectably 
even in France. Remain here awhile 
with me, and draw strength from these 
rugged shores and stern rocks. Here 
are subjects for romance of the most 
stirring kind. Chivalry and heroism 
have bloomed and flourished beautifully 
here. Take for a subject the early 
struggles of La Vendee, or the tragedy 
of Quiberon ; from either you can gath- 
er material of the most noble character, 
examples of the most lofty courage and 
tender sacrifice. Remain here, and I 
will show you that there is a deeper 
peace and happiness to be found in 
such a life than one can experience in 
the gay and illusive world.” 

“ You are kind,” replied Raymond, 
gratefully, “ but I have not a strong 
soul like you, nor a nature superior to 
the privations that such a life would 
entail ; my early education has un- 
fitted me for it.” 

“ But it is not too late to counteract 
the enervating effects of your past life,” 
returned Claude. “ I w^as once a lux- 
urious idler ; for more than twenty 
years I lived a life of ease and refine- 
ment, and it has taken me a long time 
to kill the yearning for it again. For 
five years I have been trying tq harden 
and strengthen my character by contact 
with the rudest creations of God. I 
have abjured the refinements of life 
until I am fitted to enjoy them without 
abusing them. By and by I may go 
back to them, but it will be with a 
different estimate of humanity and a 
deeper knowledge of myself.” 

Raymond arose, and looking at his 


88 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


watch, said, *‘It is high noon. I did 
not think we had been here so long. 
I have opened my heart to you as a 
school- boy does to his mother. You 
have won my confidence by some power 
known only to yourself, and taken 
possession of my affections by storm. 
I must know more of you ; you are an 
interesting study which I must pursue 
more extensively ; therefore I shall re- 
main here for a while. Perhaps 1 may 
be able to dig an epic out of the stones 
of Carnac and the Morbihan, or, better 
still, a romance from the Venus of 
Quinipily.” 

I am delighted,” replied Claude, 
with a warm smile, “that you have 
decided so quickly, and so agreeably to 
myself. Now allow me to offer you 
the poor hospitality of my old chateau, 
Avhich perhaps is not worse than La 
Croix Verte.” 

“ Thanks,” returned Raymond, hold- 
ing out his hand, “ we will speak of 
that when Sir Edward leaves, which he 
assured me this morning would be very 
soon. Now I must return to him, for 
he proposed a visit of thanks to 3^011, 
after I had come here to pay the boat- 
man the value of his ruined craft, and 
he will fume like a boiling kettle if I 
keep him waiting. Shall we find 3^011 
at the chateau a little later 

Claude assured him that he should 
be there, and should be honored and- 
happy to receive them. Then with a 
warm au revoir they parted. 


PART SEVENTH. 

? YOU MUST NOT SEE HIM AGAIN. 

When Celeste and Elizabeth reached 
their room in the convent of St. Gildas, 
after the terrible scene on the beach, 
both were exhausted from the excite- 
ment, and both were disinclined to talk 
because of the various emotions that 
filled each heart. 

Celeste had thrown herself on the 
bed, its canopy of heavy curtains mak- 
ing a deep shadow, into which she crept 
that her companion might not see she 
was weeping silently with her hands 
pressed over her face. 


Elizabeth had pulled one of the stiff, 
uncomfortable chairs up to the fireplace, 
where smouldered a few bits of wood, 
and sat with her feet on the fender, look- 
ing steadily into the dull ashes and 
smoke. It was anything but a cheerful 
place. The wind wailed down the chim- 
ney, like the cries of restless, suffering 
spirits. Perhaps the uncomfortable souls 
of the sinful old monks who tried to 
poison the unhapp3" Abelard were 
abroad that night on the wings of the 
wind and the darkness. The rickety 
doors rattled dismall3', and the loose 
windows clattered as though gaunt 
hands of invisible forms were striving 
in vain to undo the heavy fastenings. 
Celeste sighed from time to time, and 
looked wistfully toward Elizabeth. The 
noble English face was grave, resolute, 
and full of care, as it turned furtivel3% 
at intervals, toward the canopied bed, 
from whence proceeded the sighs that 
were almost sobs. At length she leaned 
forward and, taking up the bellows, 
gave two or three strong, decisive puffs 
which sent up a cloud of smoke and 
then a bright flame, while she watched 
it steadil3q still holding the bellows in 
her hand. She was evident^ battling 
with some conviction ; tenderness, pity, 
determination, and sorrow all passed 
over her face in quick succession. She 
laid the bellows down suddenl3’’, partly 
arose, and then sank into her chair again, 
glancing toward the bed. A moment 
after a quick, sharp sob told her that 
Celeste needed her. Springing to the 
side of the weeper, she clasped her in 
her arms, and drew the fair head to her 
bosom with the almost savage clasp of 
a mother who sees danger approaching 
a beloved child, and would ward it off. 

“ Don’t weep, darling, don’t, I pray ; 
you. are so tired and nervous already 
that any more excitement will make 
you positively ill. I know all about it, 

I have suffered it all with 3^011.” 

“ 0 Elizabeth ! must I tell Sir Ed- 
ward 1 ” sobbed Celeste, clinging to her 
companion. “ I never thought to see 
him again, much less to make such a 
confession ; the fear and anguish of the 
moment wrung it from me. The sight 
of his suffering face brought back all 
my old love. 0 Elizabeth ! what shall 
I do 1 shall I tell Sir Edward and beg 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


89 


him to send me away from him for- 
ever % ” 

“ I have thought it all over, darling,” 
said Elizabeth, with the gravity of a 
judge deciding a case of the greatest 
moment, — “I have tiiought it all over, 
and I have decided that you need not 
tell papa. It can do no good now, but 
you must promise me one thing, Ce- 
leste, — will you 1 ” 

“Yes, yes, cherie, anything you wish.” 

“Well, you must promise, for papa’s 
sake, that you will not see M. le Comte 
de Clermont again. You could not 
avoid this meeting, for you did not fore- 
see it ; but you must not meet him 
again.” 

“ You are right, Elizabeth, I know I 
must not, although I would give much 
to explain all to him. May I write to 
him but once, dear, only once] Tell 
me that I may, and I shall be happier.” 

Elizabeth thought a long time with 
knitted brows and compressed lips, 
while Celeste still clung to her caress- 
ingly. At length she said, “Yes, I 
think you may write to him once; he has 
great claims upon our gratitude. It is 
true that you have wronged him deeply, 
for he has a noble soul, and you should 
assure him of your regret ; in short, as 
you say, you should explain all to him. 
It may make him happier and more con- 
tented to give you up forever.” 

Celeste sobbed anew, hiding her face 
on Elizabeth’s shoulder, while she 
murmured between her sobs, “ Poor 
Claude ! poor, unhappy Claude ! ” 

“ You must not think too much of 
him, and too little of your husband,” 
said Elizabeth, with some severity in 
her voice. “ Remember you are papa’s 
wife now, and you must not indulge in 
sentimental weeping for another.” 

“ 0 Elizabeth ! ” cried Celeste, looking 
up reproachfully, “ do you think I for- 
get my good husband in my pity for 
Claude ] Am I wrong to pity him ] 
Has he not suffered much through me ]” 

“ I don’t mean to be severe, darling,” 
replied Elizabeth in a softened tone, 
“ but I wish to do right. It is a hard 
thing for me to decide for you in such a 
matter as this, I have had so little ex- 
perience of life ; but still my heart 
speaks for you. I think I am not wrong 
in saying you may write to M. le Comte 


once, just once ; but I am sure I am right 
in saying you must not see him again. 
To-morrow morning I shall ask papa to 
take us away directly from this place. 
We have several reasons for wishing to 
leave. Sea-bathing does not suit you, 
and it is very dreary beside, and not 
any too comfortable in this old convent ; 
and I am sure papa will like to go, he 
is so disgusted with the miserable inn 
and the dirty town. Shall I ask him 
to go after to-morrow 1 ” 

“ If you wish,” replied Celeste, still 
weeping bitterly. 

Elizabeth looked at her with profound 
pity. She could read her friend’s heart. 
She knew her conscience said go, but 
that her inclination cried stay. So the 
noble girl determined to save her the 
struggle and to decide for her. “Now, 
darling,” she said, laying her back on 
the pillow and kissing her tenderly, 
“ try to be calm. Pray to God, and he 
will give you peace and rest.” 

Celeste closed her eyes, folded her 
hands over her throbbing heart, and 
tried earnestly to fix her thoughts on 
the infinite love of Christ and the ten- 
der pity of his mother ; but late into 
the night, under the moaning of the 
wind and the sighing of the sea, Eliza- 
beth heard suppressed sobs that wrung 
her heart and filled her soul with sor- 
row. The next morning she walked 
into Sarzeau to speak to her father, 
while Celeste wrote to Claude. 

When Philip Raymond reached La 
Croix Verte, after his long conversation 
with Claude, Sir Edward informed him 
of Elizabeth’s visit, and of her request 
to leave St. Gildas the next day. “I 
am glad Lady Courtnay is tired of the 
place,” said the gray-haired sybarite, 
“for I am heartily sick of this dirty 
hole, and the greasy food has so de- 
ranged my stomach that I shall never 
recover from its effects.” 

Philip thought of Elizabeth, and hes- 
itated before announcing to Sir Edward 
his intention of remaining ; after de 
bating it interiorly for a moment, he 
concluded that for the present his case 
was hopeless, and there was nothing to 
be gained from her society but the 
pleasure of it, which was as well a 
danger of too serious a nature to be 
indulged in without paying a penalty 


90 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


afterward. So lie said, “I regret to 
lose your charming society, Sir Edward, 
but I have decided to remain here for a 
while in order to study geology, as I 
intend to write a poem on the “ Stones 
of Carnac.” 

“A sublime subject,” replied Sir Ed- 
W’ard, banteringly, “ and one truly 
worthy your inventive brain. I hope 
your digestive organs are stronger than 
mine, or Pegasus, w'eighed down with 
heavy bread and greasy soup, may 
refuse to soar.” 

“ I do not intend remaining to be 
poisoned by the amine, of La Croix 
Yerte. I have accepted an invitation 
from M. le Comte de Clermont to stay 
with him at his chateau.” 

“ 0 -h ! ” said Sir Edward, slowly, 
“ I understand, you have been alone to 
pour out your gratitude. Well, 3^011 
are truly polite. I believe I proposed 
to accompany 3’ou when 3^011 made that 
visit, as I have quite as much reason 
to be grateful to him as 3'ou have.” 

“ I beg 3'our pardon. I have not 
been to the chateau. I walked down 
to the shore, at your request, to find 
the fisherman whose boat we appropri- 
ated for our pleasant experiment yes- 
terday, and there I found M. le Comte, 
absorbed in contemplating — what do 
you think]” 

“ The ruined boat, I suppose.” 

“ No ; simply a band of blue ribbon, 
which he concealed as quickly and con- 
fusedly as though he had been caught 
committing a theft.” 

“ A band of blue ribbon ! ” and Sir 
Edward shrugged his shoulders. “ Ah, 
that explains his eccentricities. No 
doubt the falseness of some fair one and 
the chagrin of disappointed love have 
turned him mad.” 

“ I am convinced that he has a 
strange history liidden under his calm 
and impenetrable face ; some traged3", 
some mystery, that I am determined to 
fathom. 

“ Ver3' well, you may at your leisure, 
after I am gone ; but for the present 
occup3^ yourself with thoughts of grat- 
itude, and come with me to his tumble- 
down chateau to assist while I make 
my acknowledgments.” 

When the3" entered the great hall of 
the chateau, Sir Edward looked at Ray- 


mond and made a grimace of surprise, 
as his eye fell on Tristan, surrounded 
with his beggarly little flock, and said, 
in English, following Nanette up the 
dingy stairs, “ This is truly an interest- 
ing place, a sort of enchanted castle, with 
yonder old mummy for a gate-keeper, 
and this gnome with his horrid little 
imps for retainers. I am truly puz- 
zled with all this, and thoroughly an- 
noyed at being so deeply indebted to a 
person so surrounded with m3^stery. 
He must be mad, and I have a partic- 
ular horror of mad people.” 

When they entered the presence of 
Claude, he came forward to meet them 
with such unalfected pleasure and ele- 
gant ease that whatever disagreeable 
impression Sir Edward had received at 
his entrance disappeared at once, and 
he felt nothing less than respect for the 
grave, courteous manner, the unmis- 
takable nobility of the 3'oung man, who 
put aside with such gentle firmness 
the profuse thanks and acknowledg- 
ments of his visitors. 

“ I think,” he said, “ 3’'ou overrate my 
effort. I did but a very simple duty, 
and only what either of 3^011 w’ould have 
done under the same circumstances, 
and, beside, 3^011 might have reached 
the shore without my aid ; therefore 3"ou 
are not certain that you owe me any- 
thing.” 

“ We owe you our lives,” said both, 
warmly. “We were exhausted, and 
unable to manage the boat.” 

“ I am but an indifferent rower on 
smooth water,” observed Sir Edward, 
“ as I have practised but little since my 
Cambridge da3's, which 3’ou must per- 
ceive were a long while ago ; and my 
friend Mr. Ra3miond is but a novice at 
the oars. The sea was as smooth as 
glass when its deceitful face tempted 
us to try our skill, and, leaving the 
ladies on the beach to await our return, 
we took possession of a boat which w^as 
fastened to a rock, and started out with 
the greatest confidence. But one can 
never tell how soon a tempest may 
overtake him.” 

“ Nature has her moods as well as 
w'e,” said Raymond. “We proved it 
yesterday, and I would not have be- 
lieved so light a boat could have lived 
so long in such a sea.” 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


91 


“ Its lightness was its salvation,” re- 
turned Claude. “ If it had been heavier 
it would have foundeiW.” And then 
he adroitly changed the conversation 
to the subject of the monuments he 
had visited the day before. 

After an hour s interesting discussion, 
they arose to take leave, and then Sir 
Edward announced his intention of de- 
parting the next day. 

Claude turned visibly paler, and for 
a moment could scarcely reply to the 
adieus of his guests. But, making an 
effort to control his emotion, he re- 
peated his invitation to Raymond, and 
wishing Sir Edward hoii voyage, they 
parted with the most friendly feelings. 

The baronet' and Philip had left the 
chateau some distance behind them be- 
fore either hazarded a remark, and then 
both exclaimed at the same moment, 
“ He is a mystery.” 

For a long time after his visitors left 
him, Claude sat in deep thought, his 
hands clasped over the blue ribbon that 
lay upon his heart. He had conversed 
calmly, and with apparent friendship, 
for more than an hour, with the hus- 
band of Celeste, whom he had doubtless 
saved from death, and whose professions 
of gratitude had pierced his soul. This 
old profligate, old enough to be her fa- 
ther, had won her unfairly, had taken 
advantage of her helpless, sorrowful 
position to bind her to him, not for her 
love, but for the paltry remnant of her 
wealth. She had been a poor, weak 
child, left to the power of a designing 
and unscrupulous guardian, who had 
used her to accomplish his purpose of 
self-aggrandizement, and then had given 
her up to this unprincipled man, who 
was wasting what little the rapa.cious 
greed of the Church had spared her. 
Was she not still bound to him by 
every holy right? Did the deception 
and falsehood that gave her to another 
free her from him ? She loved him still, 
he knew it, and he thanked God for it. 
Then did she not, in spite of the laws of 
man, belong to him ? Terrible and sin- 
ful thoughts, unworthy of him and his 
destination, tortured him. He was not 
infallible, he was not beyond human 
weakness, and his soul was like a battle- 
field whereon contend two armies of 
eipial power; he struggled against his 


ignoble feelings, but he could not over- 
come them. For a little while he basely 
regretted that he had performed a noble 
act. He tried to reason in this way, 
but it was Arise and dangerous reason- 
ing. “ Perhaps,” he said, “ I have inter- 
fered with Providence. Perhaps I have 
stepped in at the moment when her fet- 
ters were about to fall, and riveted 
them anew. Poor, poor child, I have 
saved his worthless life to work out 
misery for her.” He arose and paced 
the floor hurriedly. Great drops of 
sweat stood on his forehead, from which 
protruded the knotted veins, his lips 
worked convulsively, he was in an agony 
of distress. He was a murderer in his 
heart. He thought of this man dead. 
Celeste free. Celeste his. He worked 
himself up to a frenzy of remorse and 
desire. Poor soul ! Where was the Di- 
vine strength that the day before had 
supported him, when he stood on the 
stormy shore and looked unflinchingly 
in the face of death ? It was gone, over- 
whelmed, swept away by these billows 
of passion. I cannot despise him, 
neither can I condemn him, for he 
would have been a god if he had never 
felt the weakness of humanity ; and I 
claim no such exemption for him, nor 
for any being who lives and breathes. 
There is much dross mixed with the 
purest ore, and the process of separation 
is neither brief nor gentle. We may 
fume and boil and fret against the 
white flame that surrounds us, but it 
burns on all the same and accomplishes 
our purification. 

In the midst of this tumult of passion, 
Tristan entered softly, and laid a little 
white violet-scented note in his hand. 
The servant’s gentle eyes spoke mutely 
his pity and sympathy as he glided 
away quietly, leaving Claude looking 
with dim eyes at this white messenger 
of peace. He knew it was Celeste’s 
writing, and he felt as suddenly calmed 
as though an angel from God had spoken 
to him. Perhaps there did, through 
these pitiful words poured out from a 
suffering heart. 

“ Dear Claude, [she said,] Elizabeth 
has told me that I might write to you 
once, because she did not think it best 
that I should see you to tell you how 


92 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


grateful I am to you for saving my good 
husband’s life, and how I regret the 
wicked confession I made to you yester- 
day in my fear and surprise. I hope 
you have forgotten it, for it will be a 
greater sin for you to remember it, than 
it was for me to make it when I was 
half insane from excitement and anxiety. 

“ There are many things I must ex- 
plain to you, then I am sure you will 
forgive me and pity me, and even think 
kindly of me as you once did in those 
days when we were children at Cler- 
mont. 

“Since the day Father Fabien 
showed you to me, when you were sit- 
ting under the laurels, one day, with 
poor Aimee, my life has never been 
the same. 1 believed that you had 
deceived me, and that you loved her, 
but wished to marry with me solely 
for my wealth, or so I was influenced to 
think by the representations of my guar- 
dian. Then followed the dreadful ca- 
lamity of Aimee’s disappearance, and the 
suspicion of your guilt. It terrified me 
and maddened me, and for a time I felt 
that you were indeed culpable. The 
day I last saw you in the rose-garden at 
Monthelon you inspired me with horror. 
Pardon me, dear Claude, for so painful a 
confession, but it is best to show you 
how my heart was poisoned against you. 
I was ill, feeble, and almost insane from 
grief and disappointment, for I loved 
you so — then, I mean, before all this 
happened. But when I became calmer 
and stronger, your face haunted me 
with its suffering, and I regretted that 
I had left you without a word. 0 Claude, 
if I could but have seen 5^011 then, all 
might have been explained, and these 
many days of sorrow spared us ! Then, 
just at the time when the conviction of 
your innocence began to dawn upon my 
mind, you fled from Clermont without a 
word of farewell. For many weeks I 
hoped, and waited in vain, for some tid- 
ings of you, but none came. When my 
poor mother died, I was indifferent to 
life, and looked upon a convent as a 
peaceful retreat where I might hide my 
sorrow from the world. My guardian 
urged me to such a step, and I complied. 
I had no power to resist his strong 
will, nor any friend to encourage me, 
until I knew Elizabeth. It was she who 


supported me in my opposition when 
they were determined that I should 
take vows ; but for her I should have 
yielded. When she left the convent I 
left with her, and became the wife of Sir 
Edward. I was so alone in the world, 
and so feared the influence of the Arch- 
deacon when I should be separated from 
Elizabeth, and so dreaded a conventual 
life, that I accepted any protection which 
would insure me against such a possi- 
bility. 

“ After T had left the convent I found 
my dear old Fanchette ill, and suffering 
from poverty. She died in my arms. 
I heard from her the story of youf- 
noble conduct on the night when the 
mob attacked Clermont, and also of the 
letters you had written after you left. 
0 Claude, my beloved friend ! if I had 
received those letters, all might have 
been so different, and to-day I should not 
be alone writing these sad words with 
a breaking heart. They never reached 
me, the Archdeacon prevented it. It 
is to him and my own weak, credulous 
heart that I owe all my sorrow. 

“ Long before I had learned all from 
Fanchette, I felt that I had been de- 
ceived, and that you were innocent, 
and. her eclaircissements confirmed the 
belief. But it was too late then. I 
was already the wife of another, and 
we were separated forever. I have 
tried to look upon it as the will of God, 
and to accept my fate with patience 
and calmness. I am grateful to my 
husband. He is good to me, and he 
saved me from a life I detested. I 
adore Elizabeth ; she is an angel of 
strength and consolation. Do not look 
upon me as altogether miserable. -I 
am, perhaps, happier than you think, 
and you know life at the best is not 
altogether satisfactory. My greatest 
sorrow, my most bitter sorrow, is the 
memory of my injustice to you. Dear 
Claude, you have a noble heart, you 
will understand and forgive me. I de- 
sired to see you that I might again' 
implore you to forgive me with my 
own lips, and take my last farewell of 
you, but Elizabeth convinced me that 
it was better not to do so ; for her sake, 
and with the approval of my own con- 
science, I write you this instead of 
speaking it. I could not leave you 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


93 


forever without assuring you of my 
deep gratitude and esteem. Need 1 
say more to explain all the emotions 
that fill my heart 1 . I hear from all 
of your noble life, your efforts for the 
good of others, your devotion and self- 
sacrifice ; and I am thankful that I can 
think of you again as I thought of you 
in those first days of confidence and 
hope. Do not mourn, dear heart, be- 
cause we are parted on earth; look 
forward with me to another life, where 
severed affections will be reunited, and 
where we shall speak a new language 
of love and gratitude. We must not 
weep too much for happiness we have 
missed on earth, for we shall find it all 
reserved for us hereafter. Your poor 
Celeste, who has wandered from you for 
a while, shall return to you again, and 
place her shadowy hand in yours for 
eternity.' Here, I shall pray for you, 
and hope for the time when I shall 
meet you again, beyond the tears and 
vain desires of life. Your name shall 
be the last upon my lips, as I shall be 
the first to welcome you to everlasting 
rest. [Here the letter was soiled with 
tears, and several words were carefully 
erased ; and then it ended with] Adieu, 
adieu, I shall never forget to thank God 
that I have seen you again, and have 
been allowed to write you this. Adieu, 
dear Claude, again adieu. 

“Ever your « Celeste.” 

When Claude had read and reread 
the letter, his face drenched with 
tears, he pressed it over and over to 
his lips on the spot where she had left 
the traces of her emotion, and said 
with a broken voice, ‘‘ Poor darling, 
sweet, suffering angel, God knows how 
freely I forgive thee, how tenderly I 
love thee, and how faithfully I shall 
cherish thy memory until that day 
when thou shalt lay thy white hand in 
mine forever ! ” Then he folded it and 
laid it with the blue ribbon over his 
heart, that now beat tranquilly and 
gratefully, soothed by her gentle words 
which had come to him, a message of 
hope and peace. 

The next day Sir Edward Courtnay, 
with his wife and daughter, left Sar- 
zeau, and Philip Raymond came to stay 
with Claude at the chateau. , 


PART EIGHTH. 

THE SECRET OP THE OLD CABINET. 

The summer passed tranquilly to 
Claude and Philip Raymond. The 
warmest friendship and the most per- 
fect sympathy existed between them, 
in spite of their dissimilar characters, 
and they never wearied of each other’s 
society, but spent most of their days 
together, examining and studying the 
stones of Morbihan and Carnac, hunt- 
ing, rowing, fishing, and exploring every 
inlet and creek along the coast for 
miles. Raymond enjoyed the hardy, 
out-door exercise with the keen zest, 
the eagerness and light-heartedness, of 
a boy, declaring often to Claude that 
he had made a new man of him, and 
that in his society he had forgotten the 
charms of Parisian life and its enervat- 
ing follies. It was as Claude had pre- 
dicted. The strong, rugged scenes, the 
simplicity, truth, and freshness of his 
daily occupation, so free from the tram- 
mels and conventionalities of fashionable 
society, renewed within him something 
of the purity, enthusiasm, and confi- 
dence of his early youth. He wrote 
some hours each day, and he said 
he wrote vigorously and with feeling. 
From the white-haired . peasants and 
fishermen he gathered much material 
for future work, — many romantic tales 
of La Vendee, as stirring as they were 
original ; stories of heroism and self- 
immolation, almost godlike, during the 
horrors of the persecution, when the 
valleys were strewn with the dead, and 
the Loire ran red to the sea. 

One evening while they sat together 
talking over the events of the day, 
Raymond said to Claude, “This after- 
noon, while I was at Auray, I met the 
oldest man in the Department of Mor- 
bihan ; and he was like a book of ancient 
legends, which when one has commenced 
he is loath to leave until he has, finished 
it. In his youth he was a witness of 
the terible scenes that took place during 
the reign of terror in La Vendee, — the 
horrors of the Noyades^ and the Repub- 
lican Marriages. He told me a story so 
touching that he wept while telling it, 
and I could scarce refrain from weeping 
with him. It was this, as nearly as I 
can remember. In an old chateau on 


94 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


the banks of the Loire there lived a fair 
young Countess with her proud and 
stern father, who kept her in a sort 
of captivity, guarded by an ancient 
woman whose only son was page to the 
Count. This youth was lowly born, but 
as beautiful as any hero of romance, and 
he loved the noble lady ; and she, forget- 
ting her station, stooped to listen with 
rapture to liis ardent vows. The fair 
and golden morning of their love was 
early overshadowed by the relentless 
father, who, on discovering their amour, 
banished the lover from his castle, and 
married the maid to an old marquis. 
The youth, disgusted with the cruel 
despotism of the nobility, against whom 
he swore eternal vengeance, went to 
Paris and threw himself into the vortex 
of the first Revolution, then at its birth, 
and soon became an officer under Carrier, 
one of the most atrocious monsters of 
the time, the inventor of the Mariages 
Repuhlicains^ as this outrage of every 
human feeling was styled. During the 
wholesale massacre at Nantes, one morn- 
ing when the doors of the Salorges were 
thrown open to deliver up their victims 
to their executioners, there was led forth 
a noble lady, who walked like a pale 
angel between the demons who guarded 
her. When the eyes of the captain who 
commanded the bloody band called the 
Compagnie de Marat fell upon the beau- 
tiful, calm free, he turned deadly pale 
and shuddered, covering his eyes with 
his hands. It was the Vendean count- 
ess who stood face to face with the 
lover who had sworn eternal constancy 
to her in the old chateau on the sunny 
banks of the Loire. ‘ I do not fear 
death,’ she said with a placid smile, 

‘ I only ask to die witli my father ; 
bind me to him, and let our bodies float 
together out to the sea.’ 

“ ‘ No, no, the noble with the peasant,’ 
shouted the ruffians, tearing her from 
the trembling embrace of her father, 
and dragging her toward a beastly, 
diseased creature whose loathsome form 
filled her with horror. ‘ Strip off the 
silken cover from the lily of France, 
and bind her to the foul weed, and fling 
both into the river to poison the fishes,’ 
cried a monster, seizing the mantle she 
gathered over her fair bosom, while she 
looked around upon the crowd of faces 


to see if there were pity or relenting in 
any. Suddenly her eyes lighted up, 
and a smile like a sunbeam flashed over 
her face, for she had met the same 
glance that had once bent over her in 
passionate love, — a glance that still 
had power to fill her soul with bliss. 

“ Before the brutal hands had torn the 
covering from her white shoulders, the 
blow of a sabre laid the wretch dead at 
her feet, and the captain of the Com- 
pagnie de Marat clasped her in his arms, 
and, rushing between the soldiers that 
lined the river’s bank, plunged into ‘ La 
Baignoire Nationale,^ and floated down 
the red tide heart to heart with the 
one he had loved so long and so 
hopelessly. Is not that a subject for a 
romance % Truly one might envy such 
a blissful death. After the bitter dis- 
appointment, the passionate desire, the 
weary waiting of such a life, the horror 
and anguish of such a moment, to be 
united, and united forever ! To float 
away to eternity hand in hand, soul to 
soul I Do you think they feared death, 
or suffered in dying % ” 

“No,” replied Claude, his eyes dim and 
sad with tears, — “ no, they welcomed 
it gladly, as the open portal to a long 
peace, an everlasting union. He saved 
her from outrage and degradation, and 
he crowned his love with his own 
sacrifice. Perhaps that act atoned for 
much, and it may be that in the brief 
moment they tasted more of happiness 
than we ever drain from the slow drops 
that fill the diluted cup of earthly joy.” 

“ On that subject I shall write a story 
which will touch the heart and make 
it weep,” said Philip, rising; “now, 
while I feel the furor poeticiis, 

I will go to my room and pour it all 
out in words that burn. Adieu until 
to-morrow morning.” 

Some who read this may never have 
seen Philip Raymond’s poem ; but I 
have, for not many years ago, on a 
languid summer afternoon, I sat alone 
in the chateau of Sarzeau and read it 
with tears, in the very chamber where it 
was written. 

When the winter winds began to 
rattle the casements, and blow cold 
and piercing over the barren peninsula 
of Rhuys, Raymond became uneasy and 
spoke of returning to Paris. He had 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


95 


received a letter from Sir Edward 
Courtiiay, who had returned there with 
his wife and daugliter, and Philip’s 
heart still inclined toward Elizabeth. 
Claude did not oppose him, for he knew 
that Nature announces her own cures 
as well as her needs, and that a longer 
stay in the solitude of Sarzeau might 
result in disgust and ennui, and so 
spoil all the good that had been done. 
For himself he had much to do for the 
winter; he had already begun the re- 
pairs on the chateau, and had sent a 
list to Paris for his books, and his 
school had so extended itself that he 
needed more assistance than Tristan 
could give him. In the town of Auray 
he had found a young priest of no com- 
mon attainments and of a pure unself- 
ish life, who scarcely subsisted on a 
poverty-stricken curacy. Claude’s of- 
fer to him of the charge of his library 
and school, with a very fair compensa- 
tion, was eagerly accepted, and he be- 
came a most earnest worker in estab- 
lishing an institution that was to be a 
lasting benefit to the humble town of 
Sarzeau. 

Claude had discovered that a mutual 
good had arisen from the companion- 
ship of Raymond, who, fresh from the 
active world, had enlightened and en- 
larged his ideas, which had become 
rather clouded and limited during his 
seclusion from society. He was a re- 
generator at heart, and therefore could 
not long be contented with a narrow 
sphere of action. The needs of human- 
ity, both moral and physical, which 
exist in a great metropolis, had strong- 
ly presented their claims to his atten- 
tion, and awakened in his heart a desire 
to extend his labor and influence beyond 
the narrow limits of the little provin- 
cial town. Sometimes he said to Philip, 
Mon ami, when I have completed my 
repairs, established my library and 
school, and find all in perfect working 
order, perhaps 1 may try if I am strong 
enough to bear the temptations and 
luxuries of Paris.” So they parted with 
the pleasant hope of an early reunion, — 
Pliilip to return stronger and better to 
the fashion and folly he had left for a 
time, and Claude to continue calmly 
and patiently the good work he had 
begun. 


Toward spring the repairs were com- 
pleted, the books had arrived from 
Paris, the old hall was changed into 
a simple but substantial library, all 
the rooms were thoroughly renovated 
and furnished in a suitable manner, 
and a large apartment on the other 
side of the court had been fitted up as 
a school for children, while the scholars 
of a more advanced age met in the 
library. 

Tristan’s satisfaction knew no bounds, 
for he looked upon these great improve- 
ments as the result of his little ex- 
periment in education, and upon his 
master’s generosity as something sub- 
lime. “ God will reward him by mak- 
ing him honored and happy before his 
death,” he would often say in confidence 
to the young priest, who also admired 
and reverenced M. le Comte. 

Claude had gained a crown of love 
and esteem from the honest hearts of 
his poor subjects, which he valued 
more than the jewelled diadem of a 
monarch. It was a reward of such 
priceless worth that he sometimes for- 
got the spear from which he had won 
it, and rejoiced over the scars of the 
wounds that he had received during his 
combats. Plis victory over every heart 
had been complete. Even the Cure, 
since he had become a frequent guest 
at the chateau, had tried to appear in 
a dress more befitting the dignity of 
his office, had eaten and drunk less glut- 
tonously in public, and had given closer 
attention to his sacred duties ; while 
at La Croix Verte, M. le Comte was 
welcomed with the deference and re- 
spect that a king would have received 
had he deigned to step over the thresh- 
old, which was now certaiiilj^ cleaner 
than it was the first time we crossed 
it, and the guests assembled there were 
less rude and boisterous. Instead of 
cards and dominos with their coffee, 
one might see all the popular journals, 
and hear much earnest, intelligent con- 
versation, over which M. Jacquelon usu- 
ally presided with dignity, still main- 
taining his position as a great scholar. 

During the time of the rehabilitation 
of the chateau, there occurred an event 
which colored all Claude’s after years, — 
another link in that mysterious chain 
of circumstances which we blindly call 


96 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


fate, another of those simplest of means 
which Providence sometimes employs to 
work out great designs or to reveal 
profound secrets. While renovating 
some of the time-injured furniture, the 
thought occurred to him that some re- 
pairs were necessary on the old cabinet 
which we have before referred to. He 
had employed a provincial artist, whose 
skill he rather doubted, and one day, 
wdiile watching his bungling attempts 
to replace some of the tiny pieces of 
the tarsia on a panel, it suddenly flew 
open and revealed a small aperture 
wdiich contained a package of yellow, 
dusty papers. Claude took them from 
their concealed niche wdth a strange 
feeling of awe and hesitancy. He was 
sure they contained some secret that it 
was better for him to learn alone, so 
he waited until the man had finished 
his work and departed ; then he sat 
down in the gathering twilight, and, op- 
pressed with a nameless fear, untied the 
faded ribbon that confined the pack- 
age. The two most important papers 
were folded together and surrounded 
with a sealed band, which he broke with 
trembling fingers, for it seemed like 
touching the decayed bones of his an- 
cestors. The first he opened and read. 
It was a certificate of the civil marriage 
between M. Claude Louis Linnes Vivien 
Valentin Comte de Clermont and Gene- 
vieve Marie Gautier, in the presence of 
the officier de VHat civil of the town of 
Chateauroux, capital of the D4parte- 
ment de I’lndre. It was dated May 14, 
18 — , and witnessed by Pierre Creton 
and Andr4 R4naud, and bore the seal 
of the state. The second was a certifi- 
cate of the religious marriage, performed 
in the church of St. Etienne of Bourg 
Dieu, by the Cure, Joseph Clisson. This 
bore the same date and the names of 
the same witnesses. He read them both 
over twice before he could fully under- 
stand them, and then he saw that they 
were the indisputable proofs of the mar- 
riage of his father with some other 
woman than his mother, for she was 
Countess Catherine de Clameran, sole 
survivor of an old impoverished family 
of Orleans, and this name wns Gene- 
vieve Marie Gautier, who must have 
been a hourgeoise, and the date wns six- 
teen years before his birth, and four- 


teen years before the marriage of liis 
mother. Then his father, in his early 
years, had married privately some ob- 
scure girl whom he had never acknowd- 
edged as his wdfe, and who had probably 
died without issue. He breathed more 
freely as he laid down the certificates 
and took up the package of letters. 
They w^ere in his father’s waiting, which 
was very peculiar, and not easy to be 
mistaken for another’s, and dated from 
Paris, Baden, Vichy, Ems, and other 
fashionable summer resorts of France, 
and addressed, some to Chateau Cler- 
mont, others to Paris, and tw’o or 
three to Chateauroux. Claude read 
them breathlessly, and learned from 
their contents that Genevieve Marie 
Gautier was a beautiful singer then la 
mode in the fashionable society of Paris. 
She must have been as lovely as an an- 
gel, and as virtuous as she was lovely, 
if one could judge from the impassioned 
words inscribed upon these time-stained 
letters. Ah ! if when we pen our glow- 
ing effusions w^e could tell to what end 
they W'Cre destined, what strange eyes 
W'Ould see them in all their meaningless 
mockery, long after we are dust, and 
long after circumstances have proved 
their insincerity, methinks we should 
contract our expansiveness, cool our ar- 
dor, and confine our redundancy to the 
simple, emphatic truth. When M. lo 
Comte de Clermont, in the heyday of 
youth and passion, wrote those ardent 
professions of adoration, he did not in- 
tend them to be read by his son nearly 
fifty years afterward. No, they were 
only penned for “ the most beautiful 
eyes ” of sweet Genevieve Gautier, whose 
wonderful voice, bewitching grace, and 
purity of heart, made her the theme of 
every tongue Those that bore the earli- 
est date were tender, feiwent, and pure, 
the outburst of a truthful heart, a deep 
devotion, and they must have been writ- 
ten before M. le Comte became a phi- 
losopher and a profligate. It was curious 
to note the change, following them from 
date to date : the first enthusiastic 
avow^al of admiration, the first timid 
expressions of devotion, followed by the 
first earnest and apparently truthful 
professions of love, to which succeeded 
the passionate protestations of an ad- 
oration strengtliened by her virtuous 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


97 


refusal to reciprocate any but a pure 
affection ; then the proposal of a mar- 
riage that should, for various reasons, 
be kept private for a time, the raptur- 
ous outburst of thanks in reply to the 
letter of compliance, and, after an inter- 
val of more than a year in the dates, 
another dated Paris, addressed to her 
at Clermont, where they had evidently 
been living always together during that 
time, for in this letter he calls her his 
wife, and declares he cannot support 
the separation from her, even for a week ; 
then another, nearly a year later, ex- 
presses his joy at the birth of a son, 
and his intention of hastening to her 
from Baden, where he has been passing 
some months; then another interval, 
followed by cold, formal letters, in which 
allusion is made to reproaches that an- 
noy, and chains that press heavily ; a 
little later he advises her to return to 
Chateauroux, and afterward adds to this 
a more cruel and determined order to 
leave Clermont at once, refers to the 
burning of the office of registers at 
Chateauroux, which he says “ destroys 
the only existing proofs of my rash and 
ill-timed marriage,” and speaks of pla- 
cing the boy in some institution, and of 
allowing her a sufficient income to live 
wherever she prefers, comfortably ; then 
another, and the last of the number, 
evidently in reply to a strong appeal 
from her, cold and unscrupulously wick- 
ed, utterly refusing to acknowledge her 
or her child, and commanding her, in 
the most unmistakable terms, to leave 
Clermont without delay. 

Claude had not read these letters in 
the order in which we have given a 
brief outline of their contents. He had 
gone over them rapidly with burning 
cheeks and throbbing temples, without 
noticing their succession ; but when he 
had finished them he understood all 
that was necessary to reveal to him his 
father’s true character, and he suffered 
as he never had before, for his faith in 
his idolized father — his dead father 
whose memory he had reverenced as 
something sacred — was utterly de- 
stroyed, and his hitherto honored 
name was denuded of all save the 
knowledge of the black crime that 
seemed written in indelible characters 
upon these time-stained pages by his 


own hand, which had been so long 
quiet in the unbroken rest of the grave. 
He thought of the sorrowing, suffering 
woman driven out with her innocent 
child. The ruin of her life seemed to 
weigh upon him and crush him as 
though he had been a participator in 
the crime ; and with it all came the 
terrible question, “ What am I, if this 
unhappy woman still lives 1 and what 
proof have I that she does not 1 and 
where is the son that was born of 
this union 1 Are both mother and child 
dead ? 0 my father, my father ! what 

an inheritance of sin and misery you 
have left to me ! ” He examined again 
and again the papers, and the more he 
did so the clearer the whole history 
presented itself to his stricken heart. 
The lovely, virtuous singer, the ardent 
lover mad with his passion, and deter- 
mined to possess her at any cost, the 
private marriage in the obscure town 
far from Paris, the satiety, weariness, 
and indifference, the neglected wife 
shut up in the chateau of Clermont, 
the birth of a son that renewed for a 
little time his affection for the mother ; 
then the relapsing into the former neg- 
lect and coldness, the evident chafing 
and fretting under the fetters of a mh- 
alliance^ and the desire of freedom even 
at the price of truth and honor; the 
opportune destruction of what he be- 
lieves to be all the proofs of his hasty 
marriage, and finally, the most dreadful 
of all, the denial of his wife and child. 
But how came these papers, such damn- 
ing proofs of his crime, concealed in 
this old cabinet in the chateau of Sar- 
zeau, so far from the scene of action 1 
A light dawmed upon his mind when he 
remembered Nanette had told him that 
this piece of furniture had been brought 
from Clermont. Then, in all probabil- 
ity, the pallid hands of poor Genevieve 
had placed them there for safety. 
Again, if she had possessed these sure 
proofs, why had she not used them to 
reinstate herself and child 1 There was 
some mystery, and the more he thought 
of it the more complicated it became ; 
yet he pondered on it, determined to 
solve it if possible. “If this son still 
lives,” he said over and over to himself, 
“ he is Count of Clermont. And if the 
heart of the unfortunate Genevieve did 


98 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


not break long ago under the pressure 
of her woes, she is Countess of Cler- 
mont. I will go to Chateauroux. I 
will go at once, and learn all I possibly 
can. There I maj^ be able to solve the 
secret of these letters.” Another sol- 
emn duty, another necessity for a great 
sacrifice, had suddenly thrust itself upon 
him. He understood all it involved, 
yet he was none the less decided to 
fulfil it. It might strip him of all ; 
it might brand him with shame ; and it 
would certainly place the name of his 
father in obloquy before the world. 
Nevertheless, it was his duty to expose 
such a crime ; to give back to the 
wronged what they had been robbed of, 
and he was resolved not to flinch be- 
fore it. 

When Tristan entered to announce 
dinner, he found his master sitting with 
pale, sorrowful face over this package 
of letters. He looked up, and, smiling 
dimly, held out one hand to the hunch- 
back, while he laid the other on the 
papers, saying, “ My dear boy, I have 
found something here that may strip 
me of everything, everything, even my 
name ; do you understand how terrible 
such a discovery is I ” 

“ Oh ! oh ! oh ! ” was all Tristan 
said, but his face expressed the most 
startled surprise and poignant grief. 

“ To-morrow I must go to Chateau- 
roux, and you will remain here until I 
return. You will always be true to 
me, Tristan? no matter what comes, 
you will be faithful ? ” 

“ 0 monsieur ! you know I will. 
My heart is yours forever; it beats 
always for you, and it bleeds because it 
cannot bear a part of your sorrows.” 

“ God bless you, dear, patient, loyal 
soul,” said Claude, smiling through his 
tears. “ With your love to console me, 
I may yet give my misfortunes a noble 
ending.” 


PART NINTH. 

CHATEAUROUX. 

When Claude arrived at La Poste, 
the principal inn of Chateauroux, his 
earnest intention to discover something 
of the fate -of Genevi^e Gautier and her 


child was not in the least abated. It 
was a dark, rainy night in March, and 
the wind sighed around the house with 
sad complainings, that awoke strange 
fixncies in his overburdened heart. Per- 
haps in that very room his father had 
sat on such a night with the fair Gene- 
vieve, or perhaps alone, thinking of her, 
and wishing away the hours that lagged 
between him and his desires. From 
the shadows of the great canopied bed, 
the grim wardrobe, the deeply recessed 
windows, he almost expected to see a 
graceful form steal forth and stand be- 
fore him, with slender clasped hands, 
and eyes full of earnest entreaty. The 
name of Genevieve was stamped upon 
his brain with Chateauroux, and every 
spot seemed filled with her invisible 
presence ; he felt as though no other 
character had any important place in 
the history of the town. He forgot 
that others whose names were known 
to the world had figured there, that it 
was the birthplace of the good General 
Bertrand, and that the old castle on the 
hill above the Indre was the lifelong 
prison of the unfortunate Princesse de 
Conde, niece of Richelieu. He did not 
consider that the modest name of Gene- 
vieve Gautier might never have been 
heard of beyond the circle of her humble 
family. And if it had been then, more 
than forty years ago, now it might have 
been long forgotten and blotted out by 
death and the grave. Poor Genevieve ! 
what a pitiful reward for her talents and 
virtue, what a sad compensation for her 
youth, beauty, and honor ! He despised 
the memory of his father, he felt a 
loathing of the life that ran in his veins, 
a life derived from one so unworthy, 
and he thought, “ Thank God that the 
grave has hidden him from my scorn 
and contempt. He was my father, now 
he is but a handful of dust, too miser- 
able a thing against which to cherish a 
feeling of revenge.” Then he remem- 
bered the son of Genevieve ; if he was 
living he was the Count of Clermont, 
the rightful inheritor of the chateau. 
What was he like, this unknown brother, 
who had so suddenly brought to life a 
feeling of fraternity within his heart? 
Was he a coarse boor brought up among 
peasants and ignorants, a low-bred clod 
who would step into his place and thrust 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


99 


him from wealth to poverty 1 In any 
case he was his brother, the same blood 
flowed in their veins, and he hoped to 
be equal to his duty in affection as well 
as in right. “ If I can but find him 
possessing a good simple heart, uncor- 
rupted by the vices and vulgarities of 
his associates, I will take him by the 
hand, educate him, and make him wor- 
thy of the position he will fill.” These 
were the noble and unselfish intentions 
that filled his generous soul, and he re- 
peated softly to himself, as he looked 
into the glowing coals whose warmth 
seemed to invade his heart : “ My 

brother, my brother. Ah, it will give 
me another interest in life ! If he has 
but inherited the virtue and beauty of 
his unhappy mother, he will indeed be 
worthy of my love. I will meet him 
with an ardent desire to win his affec- 
tion, an honest determination to do him 
good, and I believe 1 shall not fail.” So 
building up this fiiir structure of imagi- 
nary happiness, with pleasant and gentle 
intentions, he brooded over his fire un- 
til the servant announced his dinner, 
which was served in an adjoining room. 

Claude was anxious to begin his in- 
quiries that night'; so after the dinner 
was over he summoned the landlord to 
his room, expecting him to be the tradi- 
tional old man stuffed with the history 
of every family in the department ; but 
instead there entered with a flourish a 
round-faced, smooth-cheeked individual 
of about twenty-four years of age, who 
asked, with a .very modern affectation 
of voice and manner, how he might be 
useful to M. le Comte. 

Claude looked a little disappointed at 
the youthful appearance of his visitor, 
and said, as he motioned him to a chair, 
“ My friend, I am afraid you cannot 
give me the information I wish. I had 
expected to see an older person in the 
proprietor of La Poste, one who could 
remember back some forty years.” 

“ I am sorry, monsieur, that I am not 
older, to be of some service to you. My 
father was very old, and could have told 
you all about the town and its inhab- 
itants, and every event that occurred 
from his childhood, — for he had a re- 
markable memory, my poor father ; but 
unfortunately for you, monsieur, he died 
four years ago, and I am sure there is 


not another person in the ‘Department 
who knows so much of the history of 
Chateauroux as he did.” 

“ It is not of the history of the town 
that I wish information, it is of a very 
humble person of the name of Gene- 
vieve Gautier, who, if she still lives, 
must be more than sixty years of age. 
Have you ever heard the name % ” 

“ Gautier, Gautier, 0 yes, monsieur, it 
is a very common name in the Depart- 
ment dc ITndre, and there are several 
families in the town, but of Genevieve 
Gautier I have never heard.” 

“ Ah ! ” replied Claude, with a sigh of 
disappointment mingled with relief. “I 
am foolish to suppose that you could 
know anything of her, for it is more 
than probable that she died long before 
3mu were born.” 

“ It is likel}’’, monsieur, for Chateau- 
roux is not so large that if any one was 
living here by the name of Genevieve, 
which is very uncommon in this part of 
the country, I should not have heard it 
some time, and remembered it. But, 
monsieur, to-morrow morning, if you 
wish, I will accompany you to an old 
woman by the name of Gautier, who 
lives in the Rue St. Etienne ; she is very 
old, and she may be able to tell you all 
}mu wish to know.” 

Claude thanked the landlord and dis- 
missed him ; then he sat before his fire 
and thought restlessly of all the possi- 
bilities and probabilities of his success 
or defeat in his undertaking, and wished 
anxiously that it was already morning. 
At last ho threw himself on his bed, 
and lay awake a long time, still thinking 
of Genevieve Gautier. And when he 
slept, overcome by weariness, he dreamed 
of Genevieve Gautier, — dreamed that he 
had found her, but she was still and 
pale in her coffin, with face and hands 
of matchless beauty ; that a priest 
kneeled by her head, and sobbed, and 
murmured between his sobs, “ Ora pro 
nobis, ora pro nobis . And while he 
looked at both, the dead Genevieve and 
the kneeling priest, the dead smiled, a 
wan, sweet smile, like moonlight flicker- 
ing over a marble face ; and the cowl 
falling away from the one who prayed 
revealed the haggard fiice of P6re Benoit, 
stamped with the fiendish hate that had 
disfigured it on that night at Clermont, 


100 


A CROWN PROM THE SPEAR. 


when unconsciousness had obliterated it 
from his sight. 

It was broad day when Claude awoke 
from the nightmare-like dream, that 
still troubled him with its strange influ- 
ence; he did not like that the inscrutable 
P6re Benoit should be connected even in 
a dream with the gentle Genevieve 
Gautier. It only served to make the 
mystery darker and deeper. 

As soon as he had finished his break- 
fast he found the landlord ready to 
accompany him to the Rue St. Etienne. 
Together they threaded the narrow, 
dirty streets, until they came to one still 
narrower and dirtier than the others, 
lined on each side with hucksters’ stalls, 
shops of tailors, shoemakers, and chair- 
makers, who each pursued his peaceful 
avocation on the side of the street be- 
fore his door, unmolested by the passers 
by. Before one of the stalls, in the warm 
sun, sat a wizened old woman, her dirty 
knitting in her lap, her bony hands 
clutching a stick ornamented with tufts 
of bright-colored yarns, which she occa- 
sionally flourished over her stand to 
drive away the few flies that dared to 
alight upon her shrivelled fruits and 
vegetables. 

“ This is M^re Gautier,” said the land- 
lord, as he touched his hat and left 
Claude to a private conversation with 
the old crone, whose bleared eyes lighted 
up and whose shrunken lips trembled 
in a dim smile of welcome to what she 
supposed to be a customer. 

“ I do not wish to buy anything, my 
good woman,” said Claude kindly, as she 
began to point out her choicest articles, 
— “ I do not wish to buy, I only wish to 
ask you a few questions.” 

The old woman sunk back in her 
seat disappointedly, and resumed her 
attack on the foraging flies more vigor- 
ously than before, w^hile her face seemed 
to say plainly, Questions never bring 
me any money, and I have something 
else to do beside wasting my time in 
answering them.” 

The would-be interlocutor under- 
stood this, and, wishing to be successful 
in his investigation, he opened his 
pocket-book and laid a ten-franc piece 
on the old creature’s lap. It acted like 
a charm, her eyes brightened, her 
mouth relaxed, and, forgetting her con- 


stant torments, she dropped the wisp, 
and wiped off, with her dirty apron, a 
three-legged stool, which she begged 
monsieur to take, while she assured 
him, with the utmost deference, that 
she was entirely at his service. 

Claude took the proffered seat and 
drew it confidentially near the old 
woman, in defiance of the battery of 
eyes levelled upon him from every 
window and door in the street, while 
he said in a persuasive voice, “ I wish 
to learn something of one of your 
family, Genevieve Gautier. You must 
remember her, for she was living about 
thirty-five years ago, and she may still 
be alive, for aught I know to the con- 
trary.” 

“ Genevieve Gautier, Genevi — eve 
Gau — tier,” said the old woman slow- 
ly, striving to fish up the owner of 
the name from the profound depths 
of her memory. “Yes, monsieur, I do 
remember her, but that unfortunate 
girl did not belong to our family ; 
she was in no way connected with our 
respectable family, monsieur.” At this 
information Claude felt relieved, and 
politely regretted his error. “She was 
the orphan of a fahricant at Bourg 
Dieu, who had lofty ideas, and gave 
her music and dancing-masters, and 
educated her beyond her condition, 
which was her ruin, monsieur ; and, be- 
side, she was so unfortunate as to have 
a pretty face and a fine voice. AVell, 
she went to Paris, — you know Paris is a 
long way off, and a very wicked town ; 
there she became a singer in a theatre, 
or some other trap of Satan, and that 
was the end of her.” And M^re Gautier 
closed her lips and folded her hands 
as if she wished to dismiss the subject. 

“ And is that all you know of her % ” 
inquired Claude, sharply ; for he was 
disappointed at the old woman’s terse- 
ness, and not any too well pleased at 
her evident contempt of the person 
under discussion. 

“ I have told you all a decent woman 
should tell,” — Claude did not know that 
a spasm of virtue was the reason for 
her reticence, — “ but as you seem to 
have some motive other than curiosity, 
monsieur, I may as well add what you 
ought to know would bo the result of 
such folly. In a few years the girl 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


101 


came back sick and poor, with a child 
which she said was the son of a count 
to whom she had been privately mar- 
ried, both before the officier civil of 
Chateauroux and in the church of St. 
Etienne, Bourg Dieu ; but no one could 
ever find any record of such a marriage, 
or any priest who performed it, so no 
one believed her. i\.lthough it is true 
that the bureau de V officier civil was 
burned to the ground with all the 
records. I remember it well, for the of- 
Jicier was a good customer, and he lost 
his life trying to save his books. No 
one believed her, monsieur, because she 
should have had the copies of the 
records of her marriage, but they could 
not be found ; so she lived here awhile 
half crazed and stupid, and then she 
disappeared and never came back again. 
Afterwards I remember hearing that 
she had died somewhere in Normandy, 
but I cannot remember how long after.” 

And her son 1 ” said Claude, with a 
trembling heart. 

0 monsieur, I can’t tell anything 
about the boy, whether he lived or 
died. In fact, it has been so many 
years since I heard her name, that I 
had almost forgotten that such a person 
ever lived.” 

“You do not remember the name 
of the town where she died 1 ” 

“ I never knew, monsieur.” 

“ Do you know of any one else in the 
town who could give me any further 
information 1 ” 

“No, monsieur, I believe there is no 
one in the whole Department who 
knows anything more. My husband 
came from Bourg Dieu, that is how I 
heard of Genevieve Gautier ; and he, 
God rest his soul, has been dead twenty- 
five years.” 

“ Then you can tell me nothing 
more '1 ” 

“ Nothing more, monsieur,” she re- 
plied, with a decision that seemed to 
say, I have given you full ten francs’ 
worth of information, and I have no 
more time to waste. 

At this moment a dirt}^ bare-armed 
woman came up, evidently to haggle 
for a bunch of wilted celery, but in 
reality to see if she could discover what 
was the business of the handsome young 
stranger with M6re Gautier. So as 


Claude had nothing more to learn, he 
touched his hat and walked away. 

“ A very elegant customer,” said the 
new-comer, looking curiously after the 
young man. “ Did he buy much 1 ” 

“ The value of this,” chuckled the 
old crone, thrusting the ten-franc piece 
under the nose of her customer. 

“ Eh hien I if you have done so well 
this morning, you can afford me this 
bunch of celery for a half-sou less,” 
returned the woman, as she walked off 
with the vegetable in question, after 
having thrown two sous and a half into 
M^re Gautier’s tin cash-box. 

Claude walked toward the church of 
St. Etienne, Bourg Dieu, disappointed 
and somewhat disheartened, for he had 
hoped for more precise information from 
Mere Gautier than he had received. 
First, he wished for some proof that 
the poor Genevieve had died before his 
mother’s marriage ; and secondly, wheth- 
er the son were living or dead ; and he 
had obtained neither. Still he did not 
despair, for he hoped to discover some- 
thing from the church records that 
would throw a little more light on the 
clouded fate of the unfortunate Gene- 
vieve and her child. It was some time 
before he could learn where the Cure 
lived, and then it was some time before 
he could get his company to the church, 
for he was at his noonday meal, and 
was loath to be disturbed. However, 
when at last he appeared, Claude found 
him to be a gentlemanly person, with 
an intelligent face and kind manner, 
so he was not disposed to regret having 
waited patiently. 

“I hope monsieur will be able to 
find the information he desires,” he said, 
as he unlocked the door of the sacristy, 
whefe the books were kept. 

“ I hope the same,” replied Claude, 
calmly, although his heart was ill at 
ease. “ To begin, can you tell me 
whether a former Cure, one Pere Joseph 
Clisson, is still living 1 He was Cure of 
St., Etienne in the year 18 — .” 

“Joseph Clisson,” repeated the priest, 
taking some heavy books from a closet 
as he spoke. “ I will tell you directly, 
monsieur, whether he was removed or 
whether he died. In 18 — , you say] 
Here is the letter C ; Clisson ; Clisson, 
Jean; Clisson, Pierre; Clisson, Joseph. 


102 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


Ah, poor man ! why did I not remember 
at once when you spoke of him 'I 
Although it was so very long ago, one 
ought never to forget his melancholy 
fate. In 18 — , one year after your 
date, monsieur, he went to the Sandwich 
Islands as a missionary ; and there he 
was killed by the natives, and eaten. 
Dreadful as it is to repeat, we have 
every reason to believe he was eaten, 
monsieur.” 

Claude sighed ; not so much at the 
tragic and permanent disposal of P6re 
Clisson, as at the constant baffling of 
his own hopes, and said, “ How terrible ! 
But do you not know of any one who 
was connected with him at that time, 
and who would be acquainted with 
contemporary events'?” 

“ 0 no, monsieur, it was so long ago 
that I know no one of his age who is 
now living.” 

“ Will you allow me to look at the 
record of marriages for 18 — ?” 

“ Certainly, certainly, monsieur,” re- 
plied the priest, pleasantly, as he threw 
open the door of another closet, filled 
with old books, having large numbers 
on their dilapidated backs. Taking a 
step-ladder he mounted to the top ; and 
running his finger along the different 
volumes, he said, “ That would be be- 
tween 18 — and 18 — ; ten years each, 
you see, monsieur ; ah, here it is.” And 
he drew one of the shattered, torn books 
from the place where it had stood for 
years undisturbed, and reached it to 
Claude, while he descended the steps. 

“ It is in a bad state, monsieur, you 
see the rats have been at it,” said the 
Cure, throwing it down on a desk. A 
cloud of dust started from it, mixed 
with a stifling odor of decayed parch- 
ment as he opened the leaves, some of 
which were nearly eaten up. “ Whose 
marriage record do you wish to find, 
monsieur?” 

“ That of one Genevieve Gautier, 
May 14, 18—.” 

“May 14, 18 — . Yes, yes, we will 
find it. I presume you are a lawyer, 
monsieur 1 ” 

“No, I am not,” replied Claude, 
smiling. 

“ Some property in question, I sup- 
pose ; arn I not right ? ” 

“Yes, monsieur,” replied Claude, so 


laconically that it checked the very 
natural curiosity of the priest, who 
turned quickly the musty, torn pages. 

“Here it is, 18 — , May 1st, May 2d, 
May 3d, and so on until May 13th 
finished the page ; and as the priest 
turned it, Claude saw that the next 
leaf had been torn off, or gnawed oflf at 
the top. 

“ Rats, rats,” exclaimed the Cure with 
an expression of disgust ; “ they devour 
everything.” 

“Yes,” said Claude, looking disap- 
pointedly at the mutilated page ; “ they 
have eaten the certificate I wished to 
see ; here is nothing left but the names 
of the witnesses.” 

“ How remarkable ! ” and the priest 
put on his glasses and examined care- 
fully the fragment that bore the badly 
written signatures of Pierre Creton 
and Andre Renaud, — “ how remarkable 
that the names of the vutnesses should 
remain, while what they witnessed to 
has entirely disappeared.” 

“ I suppose it is useless to ask you if 
you know of any persons bearing these 
names 1 ” 

“ I am sorry to say, monsieur, that 
I never heard of them before,” replied 
the Cure, shutting the register and 
returning it to its place. “ I have only 
been pasteur of St. Etienne for a few 
years, and I came here from another 
part of the country.” 

Claude saw that there was nothing 
further to be learned ; that neither the 
name of his father nor the name of Gen- 
evieve Gautier was to be found upon 
the records of St. Etienne, Bourg Dieu. 
Whether the certificate of their union' 
had been eaten, as well as the unfortu- 
nate priest who united them, he could 
not say ; he only knew that the greater 
part of the page was gone, and that 
part had been the original register of 
which he had the copy. So, reluctantly 
and with a heavy heart, he thanked the 
Cure for his courtesy, and bidding him 
and the church of St. Etienne adieu, 
returned to La Poste but very little 
wiser than when he left it. 

The next morning he left Chateauroux 
disappointed, but still determined to 
continue his investigation ; for he could 
not enjoy his inheritance in peace, while 
he thought there was a possibility that 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


103 


the rightful heir still lived. The name 
and fate of Genevieve Gautier was so 
impressed upon his mind, that nothing 
could efface it. She seemed to possess 
him with an invisible presence ; to urge 
him constantly to the fulfilment of this 
new duty, which he understood fully to 
be the' most sacred, the most imperative, 
of his life. His heart was so noble, so 
unselfish, that he did not suffer at the 
thought of losing wealth and title ; he 
rather desired to find a more worthy 


inheritor for the estate of Clermont, 
which had long been, virtually, without 
an owner, for he had from the first mo- 
ment of his departure solemnly sworn to 
himself that he would never return to 
the people who had placed him under the 
obloquy of such a terrible crime until 
his innocence was acknowledged. And 
he had also decided never to marry ; 
therefore he felt it to be a double duty 
to resign Clermont, if the other heir 
were still living. 


BOOK FOUETH. 


HOTEL DE VENTADOUR. 


PART FIRST. 

“la belle dame sans merci.” 

Those who are seeking for the resi- 
dences of the old French aristocracy 
will find the Hotel de Ventadour, in the 
Rue St. Dominique, Faubourg St. Ger- 
main, Paris. It is a massive structure, 
built of large blocks of smoothly cut 
stone ; the fagade ornamented with 
fluted columns, and elaborately carved 
cornice and architrave. The windows 
of the rez-de-chaussee are heavily grated, 
and the ponderous oak doors are beauti- 
fully carved, and ornamented with bronze 
handles, bearing the devices and arms 
of the family, which boasts of being one 
of the oldest and most patrician in the 
Empire. This imposing door opens into 
a smoothly paved court with a fountain 
in the centre. Four statues represent- 
ing the seasons fill the four corners of 
the quadrangle, and four antique urns 
stand between them, crowned with 
flowering shrubs. A broad flight of 
marble stairs with deep niches, each 
containing fine statuary, conducts to 
the premier Hage ; there a servant in 
a blue livery faced with white admits 
one into a large, square antechamber, 
with a floor of different colored marbles, 
and a lofty frescoed ceiling. The walls 
are covered with historical pictures, 
each representing some battle in which 


a Marquis de Ventadour lost his life for 
his country ; and if it be in winter, a 
bright fire burns in a huge chimney of 
Flanders tile, while a number of ser- 
vants lounge on the carved chairs that 
are ranged around the walls. This 
room opens into another still longer, 
the floor of light-colored, highly polished 
wood, over the centre of which is laid a 
strip of Persian carpet. The frescoed 
ceiling is of a more delicate color and 
design than the first, and the walls 
are covered with mirrors and pictures. 
Great Sevres vases stand on ebony 
brackets; and antique marble consoles 
support, one the bust of Marie An- 
toinette, the other that of Louis XVI. 
The furniture of carved ebony is cov- 
ered with crimson embossed velvet, 
and curtains of the same rich material 
hang over the windows and doors. 
Within is another room equal in size 
and furnishing, only that the color of 
the tapestry is blue, and the floor is 
covered with a Gobelins carpet. Be- 
yond, again, is another magnificent and 
brilliant apartment, resplendent with 
scarlet and gold ; the walls and ceiling 
are scarlet, picked out with gold. The 
furniture is scarlet, with heavily gilded 
frames ; the doors and windows are 
hung with scarlet, lined with gold. The 
ornaments, tables, and chandeliers are 
of the French Renaissance, gold, and 


104 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


glitter with an effect of color truly 
dazzling, a richness almost barbaric. 
Here is a closed door. We have passed 
through the entire reception suite, and 
have now reached the private apartments 
of Madame la Marquise de Ventadour. 
It is true, the door is closed against in- 
trusion, but we have a carte d’ admission, 
and may be allowed to enter. This is the 
boudoir of Madame la Marquise, and it is 
a gem of perfection. Entering from the 
splendor of the scarlet room, it strikes 
one with its pure, cool color. The walls 
are padded with white silk knotted with 
pale green floss ; the ceiling is painted 
to represent a mass of delicate clouds 
studded with silver stars ; while at the 
four corners four cherubs hold up gar- 
lands of pale roses and lilies. The 
furniture is white, enamelled, touched 
with dull gold, and tapestried with 
pale rose-tinted silk, while clouds of 
lace, over the same delicate color, cover 
the windows and doors; and the car- 
pet is of white velvet, overlaid with 
wreaths of lilies and roses. There are 
no mirrors, no pictures, no dainty or- 
naments. A Venetian glass chandelier 
depends from the ceiling, and a carved 
alabaster table beneath it supports a 
frosted silver um filled with roses and 
lilies. In a deep, arched niche, lined 
with rose-colored silk, stands an exquis- 
ite group of Niobe, queen of Thebes, 
clasping her only surviving child in her 
arms, her woful face turned upward, 
and the tears frozen on her stony 
cheeks. The room is perfect in detail 
and tone ; delicate, pure, calm ; a fit 
temple for the goddess who reigns 
here supreme, the fascinating, dazzling^ 
Gabrielle Marquise de Ventadour. Now 
that we have poorly described the 
frame, let us try to do more justice to 
the tableau vivant it surrounds. 

It is long after midday, but to Ma- 
dame la Marquise it is morning, and she 
receives in her boudoir, wrapped in a 
rose-colored velvet 'peignoir lined with 
white satin and trimmed with swan’s- 
down ; it is open low at the neck, dis- 
playing a chemisette of the most deli- 
cate lace, which only half conceals the 
round throat, that rivals in whiteness 
the large pearls which surround it. 
Her perfect arms and small hands 
covered with gems are partially veiled 


with the same flimsy web, which falls 
below her robe of velvet, almost cover- 
ing the satin-shod feet that rest upon a 
rose-colored cushion. Her face is of 
remarkable beauty, but more remark- 
able still is the abundant and glossy 
hair, which, carelessly knotted and 
pinned back with a heavy gold arrow, 
falls below her waist in waves of silvery 
whiteness. It is not the whiteness of 
age, for Madame la Marquise is very 
young. Certainly not more than twen- 
ty-six years have passed over her lovely 
brow, which is as smooth and fair as an 
infant’s. The romantic say it turned 
suddenly white during some terrible 
tragedy. The practical say it was 
bleached by Monsieur Antin, Rue de 
Richelieu ; but as I never repeat gossip, 
I decline to say anything about it. I 
only know that on the first occasion 
when I was introduced into the pres- 
ence of Madame la Marquise, her hair 
was as white as it is now. This morn- 
ing she looks a little languid and pen- 
sive as she half reclines on her luxurious 
sofa, one white arm resting on a rose- 
colored cushion, the other buried in the 
folds of her robe. The fair hand, alone 
visible, holds negligently a small book 
of prayers, bound in white vellum and 
gold. The world says that Madame la 
Marquise is a most bewitching hypocrite, 
that she plays the farce of piety to 
perfection ; dances and flirts ad libitum, 
and fusts and prays at discretion, re- 
ceives the most notorious rouh of 
Paris, frequents the most brilliant and 
Bohemian resorts, intrigues and gam- 
bles all night, and goes at dawn to 
mass. Sometimes she flashes like a 
meteor on the horizon of society, fas- 
cinating, dazzling, enchanting all with 
her radiant charms ; at others, retiring, 
grave, simple, and serious as a devotee, 
she absents herself from the scenes that 
court her, and weeps and prays alone 
in her little oratory. How much of 
this is true I cannot say; but one 
thing I do know. Let the world watch, 
surmise, and pronounce what it may, it 
cannot lay its cruel finger upon one 
black spot in the character of Gabrielle 
Marquise de Ventadour. She may be 
reckless, inconsistent, and eccentric ; 
she may be vain, passionate, and cruel ; 
but there is one gem, the gem of her 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


105 


soul, winch she keeps pure from flaw 
and stain. The heau monde of Paris 
call her “ La Belle Dame sans Merci,” 
for she plays with hearts as a child 
plays with toys ; they are throwm at 
her feet, and the most of them are 
wwthless, so she tosses them about like 
bubbles wdiile they amuse her, and 
tramples upon them when she is weary 
of them. 

This morning, as I have said, she re- 
clines upon her sofa, and holds a book 
of prayers in her hand, but she is not 
studying it, because she is listening to a 
young man who sits beside her on a low 
tabouret j reading aloud a manuscript 
poem. He is Philip Raymond, and 
several years have passed since he first 
parted with Claude de Clermont at Sar- 
zeau. In appearance he has changed 
much, he has grown stronger and hand- 
somer. A Raphaelesque face, with pen- 
sive blue eyes and blond hair, must 
always be interesting, even if it be not 
the highest type of manly beauty ; there- 
fore w^e have no fault to find with the 
outward and visible form, but much 
with the inward and spiritual, for he 
has not made the advances toward a 
better and nobler life that we hoped he 
would after Claude’s pure and lofty ex- 
ample and sincere counsel. His genius 
has not diminished or weakened, but it 
has rather increased and strengthened. 
He pours forth his songs in tones that 
touch all hearts, from the humblest to 
the highest; his name is a household 
word throughout England; and while 
many condemn, all acknowledge that he 
is touched with the divine fire. In 
Paris he is considered the literary prod- 
igy of the time ; every circle opens its 
arms to receive him, and he enters all 
with the graceful charm that wins its 
way straight to the heart of both sexes ; 
women adore him, and men almost wor- 
ship him ; he is amiable, gentle, and gen- 
erous, but he is w^eak and loves pleasure 
and flattery, barely escaping a life of en- 
tire debauchery. Perhaps the only thing 
that has saved him from the depths is 
the effect of his frequent visits to Sar- 
zeau, and the example of the noble, self- 
sacrificing life of Claude, whom he loves 
and reverences with no common devo- 
tion, and the strong beautiful nature of 
Elizabeth, who still influences in a 


measure his character, although they 
are only friends; for she has declared 
any other affection impossible, and 
Philip no longer urges his suit, because 
he is hopelessly, helplessly, entangled in 
the chains of La Belle Dame sans Merci, 
and she deludes him, and torments him 
in the same way she does her other vic- 
tims. The poem he is reading to her 
is of course addressed to her fatal beau- 
ty, and it seems to weary her, for when 
he finishes she says without the least 
apparent interest, “It is very pretty, 
but so tame, and I am surfeited with 
flattery. Why did you not choose some 
other theme % ” 

“ How can I, when every thought is 
filled with you ^ ” 

“ Bah ! that is hackneyed.” 

“You are my inspiration; without 
thinking of you, I can do nothing.” 

“Feeble sentimentalities; think some- 
times of God and nature.” 

“ You are the god I worship, the na- 
ture I adore.” 

“ Impious, I scorn such worship, I 
would rather have the simple love of a 
child.” 

“ 0 Gabrielle ! is my passion, my 
adoration, my life, my soul, nothing to 
you 1 ” 

“ Nothing. I do not love you, I have 
told you so once, and repeated it so 
often that it has become like the lesson 
we learn from a hornbook at our moth- 
er’s knee. Have you no new confidence, 
no new hope to impart "I nothing origi- 
nal to tell 1 Do tell me something origi- 
nal, I am dying for some new thoughts, 
for some new emotions.” 

“ I can only tell you the same tale, 
Gabrielle, and I shall repeat it forever, 
and with my last breath.” 

“ 0, how you weary me ! If you are 
not more amusing, I shall refuse to ad- 
mit you to a tUe-a-tUe.'^ 

“ Mon Lieu ! Gabrielle, do not pun- 
ish me so severely. I will do anything 
you wish. Shall I improvise a song on 
your guitar 1 Shall I declaim an epic 
poem h Shall I recite some of the trage- 
dies of the first Revolution 1 Shall I 
give you some gossip from Galignani, 
Punch, or Bell’s Life? Shall I dance 
the tarantella, salterello, or cachucha? 
Shall I perform some tricks of legerde- 
main, or contort my graceful body into 


lOG 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


a writhing gymnast 1 Tell me, pray tell 
me, what I shall do to amuse you.” 

“ Quel enfant ! you know I hate ab- 
surdities. Tell me something serious 
and calm, something of your life at Sar- 
zeau, and of your eccentric friend, M. le 
Comte de Clermont.” 

“ Ah, I am jealous ! But he is in Paris. 
Shall I bring him, that you may judge of 
him for yourself! Heavens! are you 
ill, Gabrielle 1 You are whiter than 
death 1 ” 

“ Iin no, you stupid. I am only 
weary enough to die with your twad- 
dle. In Paris? What has induced him 
to leave his hermitage and charity- 
school, his barren rocks and dinner of 
herbs, for the follies and temptations of 
this modern Gomorrah ? ” 

“ He has done enough good there, by 
completely renovating and purifying 
the filthiest little town in France, and 
educating the most ignorant set of peo- 
ple in all the country ; now he wishes 
for a more extended field of labor, so he 
has come here to ennoble us all by his 
beautiful example of perfectly disinter- 
ested charity. Ah, he has a great un- 
selfish soul ! why are there not more like 
him?” 

“Yes, why not ? yours, for example, 
needs enlarging and elevating.” 

“ 0 Gabrielle ! you are severe. It is 
not my fiiult if I have not a superior 
nature such as he has. Would you love 
me, if I tried to be more like him ? ” 

“No, not in the least.” 

“ Ah, what a cruel angel you are ! 
you torture me, and drive me almost to 
despair. I would attempt even impos- 
sibilities, if I thought I could win your 
love.” 

“Do not, do not, I pray, for if you 
accomplished them it would not be 
your reward.” 

“ What the world says of you is true. 
You have no heart.” 

“ I have no heart for the world, and 
I am right. What use would the world 
make of my heart, if I gave it into its 
cruel keeping ? It would break it. Ah ! 
I know its value, and I protect it from 
invasion. I have sworn it to one, it is 
sacred to him, none other shall ever 
possess it.” 

“ To one ? to whom ? to the memory 
of your dead husband? Did you love 


your husband, Gabrielle? Tell me, did 
you love him ? and have you buried your 
heart with him in his tomb ?” 

“ Love him I pas si hUe ! why he was 
but a shadow when I married him, — a 
shadow trembling under the weight of 
eighty-four years. 0 mon ami, is it 
necessary to tell you why I married 
him ? The world surmises, but it does 
not know, and I shall not enlighten it ; 
but between you and me there is a sort 
of friendship, — I do not call it affec- 
tion ; I have no affection for you, only a 
higher liking which makes me truthful 
with you. Philip, I never lie to you ; 
you are more to my life than any other 
of the men who surround me, and 
therefore I will tell you the truth. At 
twenty, I married the Marquis de Ven- 
tadour solely for his title and wealth. 
He was in his dotage, and childless ; so 
he w^as entirely in my power, and I took 
advantage of his imbecility, and made 
him confer his name upon me, however 
not before his wife died, — 0 no, she 
had been dead nearly two months when 
I became Marquise de Ventadour. She 
was as old and feeble as he, and had a 
passion for rich laces. I was a lace-ma- 
ker. I came here to repair her laces. 
I won her confidence. She saw I was 
clever, and that I understood my busi- 
ness ; so she retained me in her service, 
which was not long, for she died soon 
after, and I married her husband. And 
now I wear her old lace, the richest lace 
in Paris. I think the most of it be- 
longed to Marie Antoinette ; for the 
mother of La Marquise w'as maid of 
honor to the unfortunate queen, and one 
of the first who basely fled with fortune 
when it turned its back upon the fair 
Autrichienne, Ah I „you are surprised 
and shocked at the revelation. Mon 
ami, you are not superior to the rest of 
humanity, for you do not like the truth. 
The world cries out for truth, and when 
we give it unadulterated, it looks coldly 
over its shoulder, and says w^e are mad. 
You thought I was a lily from the old 
stock, sans taclie, an offspring of the 
purest pedigree of St. Germain, and 
you are disappointed that it is not 
so.” 

“ No, I swear you are a diamond, no 
matter from what mine j’^ou were taken, 
and the old lace of Marie Antoinette is 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


107 


of double value because your lovely 
hands have repaired it.” 

“ Thanks, thanks, very prettily said. 
I understand, my friend, that to you 
I am diamond, but to the remainder of 
the world I am paste ; that is, if the 
world had discernment enough to dis- 
cover the difference between the false 
and the true. But it has not, and I 
shall not enlighten it. I puzzle it, I 
bewilder it. It suspects everything 
and knows nothing, and yet accepts me 
as its queen. Do I not even rival the 
matchless empress 1 Did she not frown 
on me last night at the Tuileries be- 
cause the Emperor picked up my fan 
which I dropped before her on purpose 
that she might see his devotion 1 And 
have I not all of the ten ministers and 
the hundred and fifty senators at my 
beck and call, who have sworn that there 
is no favor I could ask for in vain 1 And 
yet — and yet, Philip, all this power, 
the power of beauty and wealth, I would 
gladly lay at the feet of one whose love 
can never be mine.” 

‘‘ 0 Gabrielle ! you grieve me, you 
hurt me with such a confession. Is it 
true then that you had a heart, a warm, 
passionate heart, and that you have 
given it to another 1 ” 

“Yes, my dear Philip, it is true that 
once I had a heart, but I have given it 
to another forever.” 

“ 0, you are cruel ! you cannot mean 
it. It cannot be forever.” 

“Yes, mo7i arai^ forever ! I have said 
it, and it is enough; no more ques- 
tions, no more answers, on that subject. 
You have interested me, or I have in- 
terested myself. Now tell me of the 
Comte de Clermont. Is he hand- 
some 1 ” 

“ Yes, very. He is of the noble, se- 
rious type ; a grave man and yet gentle, 
with a smile like a child’s, and eyes that 
seem to look through you and beyond 
you.” 

“ Bring him to me. I wish to know 
him, although I presume he is a boor 
and unacquainted with the refinements 
of life, yet he will be new and refresh- 
ing. Will you bring him % ” 

“Yes, on one condition.” 

“Name your condition.” 

“ That you do not trifle with him and 
make him suffer. He is not a boor, he 


is a gentleman of the most refined man- 
ners, and he has a heart too valuable 
for you to break.” 

“ I trifle with him, and make him 
suffer ! 0 no, Philip, I shall have no 

power over such a noble soul ! It is 
only the foolish and feeble who are 
subject to my caprices. I pledge you 
my w'ord I will not make him suffer. 
Now adieu. Nanon is waiting to dress 
me for my drive in the Bois.^ Adieu.” 
And raising the silken curtain that 
hangs over the door, Madame la Mar- 
quise disappears, leaving Philip Raymond 
bewildered, astonished, and disappointed, 
but more madly in love than ever. 


PART SECOND. 

A FRIDAY EVENING AT THE HOTEL VEN- 
TADOUR. 

It was as Philip Raymond had said, 
Claude de Clermont was in Paris, where 
he expected to have been long before, 
but many things connected with his life 
and employments at Sarzeau had pre- 
vented it. After his uiTsuccessful visit 
to Chateauroux he had by no means dis- 
continued his investigation concerning 
the fate of Genevieve Gautier and her 
child, but he had spent much time in 
searching throughout the different towns 
of Normandy for more reliable informa- 
tion. At last, after much useless in- 
quiry and many failures, he had learned 
that a person bearing that name had 
lived, nearly thirty-five ^^ears before, in 
a small town not far from Rouen, and 
an old woman who remembered her 
spoke of her as a poor, half-crazed crea- 
ture >vith a little boy. After a long 
search the record of the death of Gene- 
vieve Marie Gautier was found, the age 
corresponding to that of the unfortu- 
nate victim of his father’s cruelty. No 
doubt now remained to Claude of her 
having died several years before his 
mother’s marriage. On examining the 
record further, he also found inscribed 
the name of one Louis Gautier, the date 
a little more than a year after that of 
the unhappy Genevieve, and the age as 
near as possible coinciding with that of 
her son. When Claude had discovered 


108 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


these facts he felt relieved of a burden 
that had weighed heavily upon him ; for 
he was now convinced that Genevieve 
Gautier and her child had both been 
resting for years, in peace, in the little 
cemetery of Malaunay. 

It w^as less than a week after his ar- 
rival in Paris, when one evening, as he 
sat writing in his simple but comfortable 
room in the Rue St. Roch, Philip Ray- 
mond entered abruptly. He was in the 
most brilliant spirits, and wore the most 
elegant evening dress. “ Ah, my friend,” 
he cried, eagerly clasping Claude’s prof- 
fered hand, “ I have an invitation for 
you from Madame la Marquise de Ven- 
tadour, and I am come to take you. 
Her Friday soirees are the most brilliant 
in Paris. There you will meet all the 
beaux esprits, politicians, ministers, sena- 
tors, writers, artists, and beauties most 
sought after by the beau monde, beside 
making the acquaintance of the Mar- 
quise, who is the most lovely W’oman in 
the country.” 

“Thanks for the invitation of Ma- 
dame la Marquise, as well as for your 
kindness, my dear Philip, but I must 
beg to be excused from fashionable so- 
ciety, I have neither the time nor the 
inclination for it.” 

“ You are most provoking,” said Ray- 
mond, pettishly. “ What ! do you think 
to live the life of a hermit here 1 I 
pray you to give up such ascetic habits, 
and become a little more like a sensible 
being. Paris is not the place to bury 
one’s self ; at least make an exception 
for once, and come with me this even- 
ing. You will not regret it, for Madame 
la Marquise will interest and fascinate 
you, as she doe all the world.” 

“ Bah ! not in the least. I have no 
intention of adding another name to her 
long list of victims. The Circe has be- 
witched you, as she has every one else, 
until you forget the more serious duties 
of your life to dance attendance upon 
her with the jeunesse doree^ the dandies 
and beaux who surround her. My dear 
Philip, you have become her slave, and 
your chains have degraded you to the 
same level with the others. Where are 
your noble intentions, your strong re- 
solves of the past 1 And 3 mur love for 
the noble Elizabeth, even that is blotted 
out by this unw’orthy passion, and you 


forget her in the presence of that dan- 
gerous coquette.” 

“ 0 Claude ! have a little more charity 
than the pitiless world. You do not 
know the w'oman you are condemning,” 
replied Philip, with a crimson flush. 

“No, I do not, it is true, neither do I 
wish to ; beside, at heart I am a repub- 
lican, and I have no desire to give my 
hand to the clasp of aristocrats, roueSf 
and enriched knaves.” 

“ Ah ! you are too severe. You speak 
as if one should have no pleasure in 
life.” 

“ No, you do not understand me. I 
do not condemn pure pleasure. 1 con- 
demn dainty luxury and gilded vice. If 
I engage in such diversions, what wdll 
become of my serious work 1 What 
strength and virtue can I draw from 
such impure fountains 1 ” 

“You talk as though it w^ere a fright- 
ful crime to spend an evening in the so- 
ciety of an attractive w^oman, and as 
though, because she has the gracious 
gift to charm, she should be avoided 
like a pestilence. In the salons of Ma- 
dame la Marquise all meet together on a 
delightful equality ; each one, retaining 
his own opinions, listens to those of 
others, and thereby loses his egotism 
and despotism, and becomes more lib- 
eral, less aggressive, arid less arrogant. 
Is it not true that ardent, talented 
men of the same noble intentions, some- 
times without ever having known, hate 
each other, who, after they have been 
thrown together under the refining and 
conciliating influence of good society, 
come to esteem and like each other 1 
Madame la Marquise has the gracious 
faculty of making the most opposite 
parties perfectly at ease together, and 
the happy effect of her evenings is often 
to extinguish political suspicions and 
enmities. She is most liberal in her 
views of life, and charitable in her 
judgments, and I venture to assert that, 
in any good work you may choose to 
undertake, you will find in her a power- 
ful coadjutor, for she is as noble and 
generous as she is lovely and fasci- 
nating.” 

“ 0 my dear boy ! you are bewitched 
by the siren ; as far as I can learn she 
is a most heartless coquette, and I am 
sure her vanity would not be at all suited 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


109 


with my austerity. I fancy rich dresses, 
laces and jewels, flattery and luxury, 
are the subjects she considers most 
worthy her thoughts. Noble liberty 
and manly equality have a voice too 
coarse and a hand too rough to please 
her dainty tastes ; therefore, dear Ray- 
mond, say no more. I do not wish to 
know this woman. I do not wish my 
serious life disturbed by her follies.” 

“From your gentle remarks one 
would think you hated women, and had 
some grave wrongs to avenge on all the 
sex. It is absurd for you to be angry 
with them simply because they like lace 
and jewels and arc beautiful. My opin- 
ion is that it is only cowardice that 
makes you refuse. You are afraid to 
meet the fire of La Marquise’s splendid 
eyes.” 

“Not at all ; splendid eyes never dis- 
turb me.” 

“ Nonsense ! you are too young to 
preach. You don’t mean to tell me 
that a lovely woman has no power to 
make your heart throb faster 1 ” 

“ The most lovely creature living has 
no power to quicken the pulsation of 
that organ,” returned Claude, laughing 
at Raymond’s expression of incredulity. 
Then he added, more seriously, “No, 
my friend, I am sincere, the solemn 
duties of life, the needs and sorrows 
of humanity, fill my existence, and I 
have no time to -waste in amorous sigh- 
ing, I leave that to gay gallants like 
you; the only passion that fills my 
heart is love for my country.” 

“ Bravo ! how patriotic ! I swear your 
noble sentiments will find an echo, in 
the fair bosom of La Belle Marquise, for 
I have heard her utter the same words 
a thousand times. Come, my dear 
Claude, come with me but this once, 
and I will promise you solemnly that, 
after you have spent one evening in the 
society of Gabrielle de Ventadour, and 
are not charmed with her, I will 
never again disturb your peace with my 
selfish desires. I have talked of you so 
much to her, that she is already inter- 
ested in you, and prepared to like you 
immensely. I am dying of jealousy, yet 
still I insist upon your going, because 
I have pledged my word to bring 
you.” 

“ I am sorry, Philip,” said Claude, 


with some impatience, — “I am sorryyou 
should have done so without consulting 
me first ; you know I have the strongest 
aversion to fashionable society. How- 
ever, that you may not break your 
promise to the fair tyrant, I will go 
with you once, but only for an hour, 
for I have much to do.” 

“ Bravo ! ” cried Raymond, clasping 
his hands with childish delight. “ Now 
my victory is sure. Make haste with 
your toilet. Shall I call Tristan to 
assist 1 The poor soul was sleeping on 
a sofa in the anteroom when I entered. 
Claude, have you noticed how he has 
changed lately 1 The boy is dying ! he 
is so thin he is ghastly, and that cough 
is tearing him to shreds.” 

“ Yes, I know it too well,” replied 
Claude, sadly, as he laid away his 
papers and closed his desk. “ My 
strongest reason for coming to Paris 
was that he might have the benefit 
of milder air and a better physician 
than Sarzeau affords. No, I will not 
disturb him, I will dress alone. Poor 
boy, it wrings my heart to think that I 
may lose him.” 

Before Claude had completed his 
toilet, Tristan entered, and his master’s 
eyes searched his thin face more anx- 
iously than ever. It was true he had 
changed frightfully. Since Philip had 
last seen him at Sarzeau, disease had 
made rapid inroads upon his always 
feeble constitution ; now, as he stood 
languidly before Claude, his long, piti- 
ful-looking hands folded, and his head 
wearily dropped on his shoulder, while 
his eyes, unnaturally large and bright, 
beamed with gentle pride and satisfac- 
tion, his master’s heart ached at the 
feebleness of his appearance, and he 
said, with a voice as tender as a moth- 
er’s, “ Do you feel a little better this 
evening, Tristan 1 ” 

“ 0 yes, monsieur, much better.” It 
was always the same answer, for he 
never complained. 

“ Don’t sit up for me, Tristan, go to 
bed as soon as you like after I am 
gone,” returned Claude, kindly, as he 
tied the last knot of his white cravat. 
“ Now do I look sufficiently well dressed 
for fashionable society 1 ” 

“ 0 monsieur, you are perfect ! ” re- 
plied Tristan, with undisguised adniira- 


110 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


tion. ‘‘ I never saw you so elegant 
before.” 

“ I wish it were for a better cause, 
my boy,” said Claude, drawing on his 
gloves as he left the room to join Ray- 
mond. 

“Now you please me, and do credit 
to yourself ; you are elegant, entirely 
elegant,” cried Philip, as he walked 
around his friend, and examined his 
dress with the affected airs of a fashion- 
able tailor putting the last touches to 
the fitting of a new suit. “ I am sure 
the heart of Madame la Marquise will 
surrender at the first glance. Now, 
mon ami, you must promise me not to 
try to win her from me, neither to 
make her suffer by your severity. If 
you see she is really interested in you, 
retire from the field, and leave me a 
fair chance. Will you promise me 
that 1 ” 

“Yes, with all truth, you need have 
no fears, you will not find a rival in 
me. She may have all the charms, all 
the graces, and all the virtues, yet she 
can have no power to touch my heart ; I 
am protected by an invulnerable ar- 
mor.” 

Philip laughed derisively, as he gave 
the coachman the order to drive to the 
Hotel Ventadour, Rue St. Dominique. 

It was rather late when they arrived, 
and the salons of Madame la Marquise 
were crowded with a brilliant throng. 
She stood in the scarlet room, under 
the light of the great golden chandelier, 
clothed in dazzling white, and blazing 
with jewels, receiving with the grace 
and dignity of a queen the distin- 
guished guests who disputed for her 
smiles. 

In spite of the calmness and stoicism 
of his character, in spite of the chilling 
and hardening effect of his years of 
seclusion, in spite of the armor which 
he boasted of wearing, Claude’s heart 
bounded and throbbed as it never had 
before, when his eyes fell upon the 
remarkable beauty of this woman ; his 
head whirled, and his breath seemed to 
come in short gasps, thousands of lights 
danced before him, and thousands of 
voices deafened him, as he clasped Ray- 
mond’s arm tightly while he led him 
forward to present him. 

Madame la Marquise de Ventadour 


received her guest with the most charm- 
ing grace and sweetness, the long lashes 
swept the fair cheeks, and the lips 
trembling in a half-smile uttered what 
was unintelligible, yet there was no 
visible agitation save the rapid rise 
and fall of the clouds of lace over her 
bosom, and the sudden pallor that was 
swiftly succeeded by a delicate flush. 
Then she raised her splendid eyes and 
looked Claude steadily in the face, 
while she addressed him in calm, clear 
tones, which he did not seem to hear, 
for he made no reply, only bowing low 
he drew back and allowed some new- 
comers to take his place. 

“ For God’s sake ! ” he said, in a low 
voice, clasping Philip’s arm more tight- 
ly, “ draw back a little behind this 
crowd until I get breath. I am stifling. 
I told you I was not fit for such a scene. 
The very air poisons me ! ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” returned Raymond, 
looking at him with surprise ; “ it is the 
sudden glare of light, and the confusion 
of voices. Why, you are like an actor 
touched with stage fright ; or perhaps 
‘ La Belle Dame sans Merci ’ has sent 
an arrow straight to your heart.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, Philip, don’t 
jest. I tell you 1 have had a shock, 
a terrible shock. I am thoroughly be- 
wildered, leave me alone while I recover 
myself.” And sinking on to a sofa in the 
alcove of a window, he buried his face 
in his hands and shut out the glare of 
light and the dazzling form of Gabriello 
de Ventadour. A thousand emotions 
and memories swept over his soul. It 
seemed as though the events of his 
whole life were concentrated into that 
moment, yet he was not conscious of 
any one scene being clearer than an- 
other. All was chaos, bewildered con- 
fusion, a murmur of indistinguishable 
sounds. A blaze of every color min- 
gled in the wildest disorder. 

He was aroused at last by RaymomL 
who said severely, while he laid his hand 
on his shoulder, “ Come ! this will never 
do. Don’t make yourself ridiculous. 
You are attracting the attention of the 
whole company. Shake off your night- 
mare, and go and speak to the Mar- 
quise, or leave the room.” 

Claude started up with a pallid face, 
passing his hand over his eyes as if to 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


Ill 


clear his sight. ‘^It is true, I am a 
fool, a stupid dolt, to be overcome in 
this way. But have patience wdth me, 
Philip, for a moment, I have received 
such a shock. Give me your arm, and 
we will take a turn through the rooms, 
while I compose myself sufficiently to 
speak to yonder dazzling creature, then 
afterwards I will slip quietly away. I 
cannot remain here, it is no place for 
me.” 

“ Come with me to the library, it is 
cooler and quieter there,” said Ray- 
mond. As they left the alcove to- 
gether, Claude glanced at La Marquise. 
She stood in the same place, surrounded 
by the same throng of admirers, but 
her eyes were following him. On the 
thi'eshold of the library another sur- 
prise awaited him. A tall, elegant- 
looking man in purple robes turned, as 
the two entered, from a group of eccle- 
siastics who surrounded him, and Claude 
saw before him Monseigneur the Bishop 
of Rouen. It acted like an electric 
shock ; all the confusion and feebleness 
of his mind passed away like a flash 
before the unflinching gaze of the man 
who had so wronged him. In that 
moment each face expressed more than 
words can describe, while without the 
least apparent recognition on either 
side they met, and passed so near that 
the purple robes of the Bishop brushed 
against Claude. 

When Raymond, with his companion, 
returned to the scarlet room, the num- 
ber of worshippers that surrounded La 
Marquise had not in the least dimin- 
ished, yet the moment her eyes fell 
upon them she gracefully motioned 
both to her side, while she said to 
Philip, “ I am more than grateful to 
you, M. Raymond, for your prompt 
compliance with my wishes.” Then 
she turned to Claude with a smile, half 
grave, half happy, “ I have heard so 
much good of you from your friend, that 
I have long wished to know you, M. le 
Comte.” 

“ You honor me, madam,” replied 
Claude, with a low bow, “ but I fear 
you have overestimated my humble 
efforts, if the kind heart of my friend 
exaggerates what little I have done to 
something worthy your notice.” 

“ M- Raymond, will you go and talk 


with Madame T 1 She is , dying 

for some of your charming compliments.” 
Philip looked reproachfully at La Mar- 
quise as he walked off to do her bid- 
ding. “ Now, M. le Comte,” she said, 
turning to Claude with a bright smile, 
“ I believe you are unacquainted with 
Parisian society, perhaps you will allow 
me to point out some of its celebrities 1 ” 

“ You are too kind,” with another 
grave bow, while his eyes seemed riv- 
eted upon her face. 

“ Do you see those two men talking 
with the lady in bluel The blond is 
M. le Ministre de la Guerre, the brun 
is M. le Ministre des Finances, and the 
lady is the celebrated Countess de 

M ; both are in love with her, and 

she is in love with neither. Yet each 
is ready to swear that she adores the 
other; while her husband, who is one 
of the senators, would like to shoot all 
three.” 

Claude did not reply ; he seemed to 
be studying the countenance of La 
Marquise curiously. Again she flashed 
another glance at him ; both turned 
visibly paler; then the long lashes 
swept her cheeks, and with a slightly 
tremulous voice she went on with her 
remarks. “ Yonder small, dark man 

is M. R , one of the leaders of the 

Republican party ; he is a strong spirit, 
an agitator, an extremist, but he is 
wonderfully clever.” 

“ I am well acquainted with him 
through his works ; he writes those 
spirited and truthful letters in the — ” 

“ Yes, M. le Comte, he is very ad- 
venturous ; three times he has been 
imprisoned because of his attacks on 
the Imperial party, but as often as he 
has been liberated he has advanced his 
opinions with the same intrepidity and 
defiance. I like him ; he is one of my 
heroes. I worship a strong, fearless 
soul.” 

“ A noble woman always admires 
courage, no matter in what cause,” said 
Claude at random, scarce knowing 
what he said, so confused were his 
thoughts in the presence of this remark- 
able woman. 

“ Notice that man who is passing ; 
the short, thick man, with flat nose, 
and black, close-curling hair ; that is 
M. D ; and the tall, thin man with 


112 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


him is M. M , his shadow he is called ; 

he always goes with M. D to assist 

in gathering material for his novels. 

It is well known that poor M. M 

does all the work, and that M. D 

reaps the benefit, that is, the fame and 
the money.” 

“ How unjust,” said Claude, bitterly, 
“to take so contemptible an advantage 
of the pov/er given to one by success ! ” 

“ It is true ; but there is so little 
justice in society ! 0 M. le Comte, 

here in my own rooms, as well as in 
other brilliant circles, I see things that 
make me blush at the deceptions we 
are capable of. In my salons are repre- 
sentatives of all parties ; of the state, 
the Church, and the liberal professions. 
I encourage equality,” — with a little, 
mocking laugh and another quick glance 
at Claude. “ I am as thoroughly diplo- 
matic as a statesman. I have one room 
for the sheep, another for the goats, and 
a third for the wolves ; yet they all 
mix together ; they affect to hate each 
other, yet they mix without much snarl- 
ing. And I like a sprinkling of scarlet 
and purple, it gives dignity to a recep- 
tion. Yonder, talking with the Arch- 
bishop of Paris, is the Bishop of Rouen. 
He is an ambitious man, and hopes to 
be a cardinal. Has he not an imposing 
figure and a face of remarkable intelli- 
gence % ” 

Claude raised his eyes and saw those 
of La Marquise fixed upon him with 
what he thought to be a strange expres- 
sion. A slight shiver passed over him, 
but he said, calmly, “Yes, madam, his 
exterior is faultless, let us hope his 
character is equally so.” 

“ He is a successful man. Society 
does him homage, the Church looks 
upon him as one of her most earnest 
and devoted teachers, his influence with 
the government is almost boundless, 
and his opposition against republicanism 
is a power in itself. I suppose the proof 
of one’s superiority is his success, is it 
not so 1 ” 

“ With the world, yes, often ; but 
before a higher tribunal one may be 
judged differently.” 

“ You take a very serious view of 
life, M. le Comte. It has one mean- 
ing for you and another for us who 
are only pleasure-seekers. We are 


ambitious of the most contemptible 
things ; you, of the most noble. Here 
is one of our stars, our brightest stars,” 
as a young man with pale, earnest face, 
and eyes full of fire, bowed low before 

her and passed; “he is M. L. N , 

our glorious young orator. Ah, mon 
Dieu ! how he touches all hearts ! He 
does not fear to speak the truth, no 
more than does that intrepid contributor 
to the Revue des Deux Mondes. Did you 
read his last article on Equity % ” 

Claude bowed in reply. 

“ I admire the nobility and truth of 
his sentiments, as well as the courage 
with which he defends them. It is to 
be regretted that the nation must be 
deprived of such a teacher. I am told 
that already the secret police are using 
every means to discover who he is ; and 
that the Revue is threatened with sup- 
pression if it publishes any more of his 
articles. I hope the unfortunate man 
will be warned in time to save himself 
from imprisonment.” 

The sweet, clear voice of La Marquise 
was full of anxiety, and her eyes were 
fixed earnestly on the face of Claude as 
he replied, “ If he is an apostle of the 
truth, he must not be silent from the 
fear of evil consequences. — Who is that 
fair, florid young man talking with such 
animation to the group of ladies sur- 
rounding him 1 ” 

“ 0, that is M. D , the popular 

artist; he is an immense favorite, and 
most amusing. To look at his inex- 
pressive face one would not believe he 
could so well represent the horrors of 
the infernal regions. — 0, Sir Edward, 
and Lady Courtnay, and Mademoiselle 
Elizabeth 1 I am more than happ}- to see 
you all.” And La Marquise held out 
both hands in eager welcome to the new 
arrivals. 

Scarce had Sir Edward and the ladies 
replied to her kind reception when they 
all recognized Claude, — Sir Edward with 
evident pleasure. Celeste with trembling 
indecision, and Elizabeth with unmis- 
takable gravity and coldness. During 
this first moment of excited surprise La 
Marquise studied the group with the 
keenest attention. 

Sir Edward’s first act was to present 
Claude to his wife and daughter. 

“ AI. le Comte de Clermont, my dears. 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


113 


who so modestly evaded your gratitude 
on that dreadful night when ho risked 
his life to savo ours.” 

With feelings of extreme culpability 
both Celeste and Elizabeth acknowl- 
edged their indebtedness, and added 
the conventional professions of pleasure 
at meeting again under such agreeable 
circumstances, with a calmness that 
surprised Claude as well as themselves. 

Happily for all, at that moment Ray- 
mond appeared upon the scene, and the 
conversation became general. La Mar- 
quise was brilliant, with smiles that 
dazzled, and flashes of wit that startled ; 
Sir Edward was overflowing with good- 
humor and compliments ; he was one of 
the oldest satellites that revolved around 
La Marquise, and was therefore allowed 
more privileges than the younger aspi- 
rants for favor. Philip was jealous of 
Claude’s long tUe-h-tHe^ and uneasy in 
the presence of Elizabeth ; so he was 
moody and satirical by turns. Claude 
was calm and almost solemn, as he was 
in every great crisis ; to him this was 
* a moment ,of no common importance. 
He pitied Celeste’s pallor, and her un- 
successful effort to hide her agitation, 
that she might join in the conversation 
with composure ; while he respected 
Elizabeth’s anxiety to conceal her own 
troubled reflections, and at the same 
time to divert attention from her friend. 
‘‘ I will withdraw quietly,” he thought, 
“ and relieve these unhappy women of 
my presence.” So, unnoticed by the 
others, he took leave of La Marquise 
and left the group at the same moment 
as Monseigneur the Bishop of Rouen 
joined it. 

When Claude reached the retirement 
of his own room, his thoughts were still 
in a terrible confusion over which he 
had no power. The successive events 
of the evening, so unexpected, and of a 
nature so trying, had thoroughly demol- 
ished his boasted structure of stoicism, 
and the meeting with Fabien had 
aroused feelings which he had hoped 
could never again find a place in his 
heart. After sitting a long time ab- 
sorbed in profound thought over his 
complication of difficulties, he arose, and 
pacing the floor with rapid strides 
said, in a voice full of disappointment 
and sorrow : There is a fatality in 
8 


this, — there is a fatality. God knows 
how I have tried to avoid these shoals 
on which I am shipwrecked. I did not 
willingly rush into this danger. I 
struggled against it, I tried to shun it. 

0 Philip, my friend, in your kindness 
you have been most cruel ! That mys- 
terious woman has thrown a spell over 
me that I cannot cast off. How inscruta- 
ble is the chain of circumstance that 
unites the severed ties of life ! Again 
all is undone, my peace of mind is dis- 
turbed, my old love revived, my old de- 
sires renewed. In one hour I have for- 
gotten all my years of sacrifice and sor- 
row ; the high wall that I have striven 
to build with care between me and the 
angel I still adore is swept away by 
these floods of passion. 0 Celeste, my 
pale darling, I hoped we should meet 
no more until we met in eternity ! but I 
will strive to be strong for thee, thou 
shalt never have cause to reproach 
me.” 

“Celeste,” said Elizabeth that same 
night, as she stooped over her to kiss 
her before retiring, — “ Celeste, darling, 
there seems to be a fatality in our meet- 
ing M. le Comte de Clermont again ; now 
that it has occurred, I regret our having 
kept anything from papa. I felt terribly 
guilty when he presented him to us as 
though he had been a stranger.” 

“ We will think of him then only as 
having seen him for the first time to- 
night. We will forget all the past, that 
will be best,” returned Celeste, with a 
trembling sigh of regret, that plainly 
contradicted her assertion. 

Madame la Marquise de Ventadour 
retired to her luxurious chamber after 
her last guest had departed, and locking 
the door against her maid, she almost 
tore the jewels from her arms and neck, 
the band that confined her hair, and 
the girdle encircling her waist. “ They 
press too heavily,” she said between her 
white teeth, as she threw them negli- 
gently on her dressing-table. “ My God, 
how they tortured me while his truthful 
eyes were looking into my face ! Ah, 
for what a price I sold myself ! If tears 
of blood could wash away the sin, the 
fever, and anguish of my soul, then I 
should be pure and suffer no more, for 

1 have wept them, I have wept them 
until my heart is drained white.” 


114 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


PART THIRD. 

A DINNER IN THE RUE CASTIGLIONE. 

The next morning after the soiree at 
the Hotel Ventadoiir, Claude sat at his 
desk vainly trying to concentrate his 
thoughts upon the work before him, an 
article which he had been preparing with 
great care for one of the liberal journals, 
which was at that time a mouthpiece 
of the reform party. Whatever he did 
toward emancipating and enlightening 
humanity was done after deep delibera- 
tion and mature thought, for he wished 
to be both generous and just ; but this 
morning he felt incapable of calm, clear 
reasoning, he could neither separate nor 
arrange the chaos of ideas that filled 
his mind. He thought of Gabrielle de 
Ventadour, and of Celeste, and then of 
Fabien in his bishop’s dress, honored 
and prosperous; of the wrong Fabien 
had done him, of the still greater wrong 
to that pale sad woman, who seemed a 
living but silent reproach to his cruelty ; 
and then again the lovely face with its 
crown of silver-white hair, the strange 
expressions of the eyes, the mouth with 
passion and sorrow stamped under its 
smile, came between him and his paper, 
and he laid his pen down in despair and 
resigned himself entirely to his revery. 
He thought of all who had taken part 
in the scene of the previous evening as 
we think of those who are closely con- 
nected with our interior life, invisible 
cords united and drew him persistently 
toward those whom the day before he 
had believed to be separated from him 
forever. He felt a strong desire, so 
strong that he could scarce conquer it, 
to see again that remarkable woman 
who had left such a strange impression 
upon his memory. She had attracted 
him, fascinated him, if you will, but it 
was not a physical fascination. There 
was no material element in the power- 
ful spell that inth railed him ; he did not 
'Connect it with her beauty, her wit, her 
■gracious and winning manner. It was a 
weird, supernatural charm that invested 
her. He thought of her as one might 
think of a vision that had appeared in a 
dream, or of one of those startling fan- 
tasies of a diseased brain, when one who 
bas been long forgotten in the dust and 
darkness of the grave, and the form of 


whose face is even obliterated from mem- 
ory by the effacing finger of Time, sud- 
denly stands before us in the silence and 
solemnity of the night, wearing the same 
smile that once made our life glad. She 
was a resurrection of something that had 
died long before from his existence, and 
with it an old affection, an old interest 
was renewed to the exclusion of later 
influences. Then Celeste haunted him, 
contending with the other for the first 
place in his thoughts ; she had changed, 
sadly changed, during the years that had 
passed since he saw her on the shore of 
Quiberon ; she was slighter, paler, lan- 
guid, and sorrowful ; he saw it all at a 
glance, and understood that her life was 
one continuous martyrdom, that care 
and anxiety were pressing like a heavy 
burden upon her ; and, more, he was tor- 
tured with the belief that her health 
was seriously undermined, and that un- 
less something was done to save her she 
would sink into a premature grave. “0 
merciful Heavens ! ” he thought, “ why 
cannot I take her away from the misery 
that is killing her, to the shelter of my 
love 1 I might save her, and prolong the 
life that is so much dearer than my own. 
I might make her happy, and thereby 
atone for the suffering I have unwillingly 
caused her ; but it cannot be, it cannot 
be, I can only watch over her from afar 
and pray for her. My lamb, my poor 
gentle lamb, thy meek eyes haunt me 
with a mute appeal for help, and I can 
do nothing for thee.” Miugled with his 
pity, his sorrow, his tender desires, was 
a drop of gall that imbittered his whole 
soul; it was his indignation, his contempt, 
his righteous anger, against the man 
who had defrauded both of happiness. 
What right had he to take from us 
what no human power can compensate us 
for'? He has ruined two lives; he should 
be punished, he should bear the mark of 
Cain upon him, he should be branded by 
the hand of God ; and 3 ’ct he prospers, 
and the world honors him. 0 justice ! 
justice ! thou art indeed a mockery.” 

In the midst of these uncomfortable 
reflections, a visitor was announced. 
It was Sir Edward Courtnay. When 
Claude rose to receive him, he came 
forward with outstretched hands, de- 
claring with the utmost empi'essement 
that he could not allow a day to pass 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


115 


without offering him some little hospi- 
tality. “ And my wife and daughter 
join with me in the same feeling,” he 
said ; “ therefore I am come to pray 
that you will dine with us this evening, 
quite informally, no one but yourself 
and Raymond.” 

Claude hesitated ; should he accept, 
or should he refuse 1 His honorable 
character would not allow him to suc- 
cumb to the temptation without com- 
bating it. In the first place, he did not 
feel at ease in regard to the deception 
they all three. Celeste, Elizabeth, and 
himself, had tacitly imposed upon Sir 
Edward. If he could have said, “ I was 
once the lover of your wife, and I adore 
her still. I deceived you at Sarzeau 
by allowing you to believe that she was 
a stranger to me. Now, if you wish to 
open your doors to me, I am ready to 
enter.” In such a case he would have 
felt that he was acting an honorable 
part. But still to continue the decep- 
tion, and accept an hospitable offer 
made in good faith, was most revolting 
to him. If he alone had been involved, 
he would not for one moment have 
hesitated to declare the truth. Now 
it was necessary, either to accept 
the baronet’s friendship, or to give a 
reason for refusing it ; but if he ac- 
knowledged his own fault, ho would by 
so doing betray the two women, wdio 
for some cause, perhaps most important 
to themselves, had concealed the fact 
of their previous meeting and of the 
scene that had then occurred. He did 
not know what had prompted them to 
such a course, nor what the result 
might be to them if he revealed all. 
Then again. Sir Edward had said that 
his wife and daughter had wished that 
he might be invited. They then de- 
sired to place him on a friendly footing, 
perhaps to let bj’gones be bygones. In 
any case it seemed a sort of treaty of 
peace, an offer of an amicable alliance, 
which he could not disregard. Of one 
thing he was certain, and that was that 
the unhappy woman needed a friend, 
some one who had no selfish interest in 
his devotion to her, and he believed 
himself at that moment capable of any 
sacrifice, any immolation, that might 
make him more worthy of her confi- 
dence. Therefore, after this interior 


debate, which was shorter than the 
time taken to describe it, he accepted 
the invitation to dinner; and Sir Ed- 
ward went away \vell satisfied, con- 
gratulating himself that the noble, 
unsuspecting nature of Claude did not 
detect any selfish motive under his 
importunate attention. 

Secretly Celeste wished to see 
Claude again. She hoped to see him, 
she longed to see him. She admitted 
that desire to herself, and denied it the 
next moment with tears and blushes. 
“ I must not see him, Elizabeth says I 
must not ; and yet why cannot we be 
friends 1 ” she repeated over and over 
to herself. “ We might both forget the 
past, and be friends. Life would be 
worth supporting if I could but have 
his counsel, his aid. Poor Elizabeth is 
but little better able to bear my bur- 
dens than I am myself ; and yet I am 
obliged to lay them upon her, because 
I cannot stand up under them. 0, if 
we both might go to Claude, and tell 
him of our troubles, and ask him to 
show us some way out of them ! I am 
sure if Elizabeth could look at it in 
that way, she might think it better to 
allow him to be our friend.” 

When, the next morning, over the 
hreakfast-table. Sir Edward spoke of 
Claude, and suggested that he should 
be invited to dine with them that 
evening, both ladies unexpectedly ob- 
jected ; and then seeing that their 
objection, without apparent reason, 
caused some surprise, they confusedly 
and hesitatingly complied, and even 
expressed the hope that he might come. 

“ There is no reason in the world 
why he should not, my dears,” said the 
baronet, rubbing his hands together 
good-naturedly. “ He is a superior 
young man, so distinguished looking, 
and he belongs to one of the oldest and 
best families of France ; besides, I am 
told that he is rich, very rich. He 
is an excellent pariz for you, Elizabeth, 
an unexceptionable parti ; encourage 
him, my daughter, encourage him.” 

“ 0 papa ! how can you talk so 1 ” 
said Elizabeth, with a little anger and 
contempt in her voice, while Celeste 
turned paler, and stirred her coffee 
nervously. 

After Sir Edward left the room, Lady 


116 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


Courtnay looked up, and seeing Eliza- 
beth’s eyes fixed upon her inquiringly, 
she flushed and paled, tried to speak, 
and then burst into tears. 

“It is no use to weep,” said Eliz- 
abeth, a little severely. “We have 
both deceived poor papa, and we must 
bear the consequences calmly, or else 
I must tell him all, and leave him to 
punish us as he thinks best.” 

“ 0 Elizabeth ! I implore you not to 
tell him,” cried Celeste, wringing her 
hands. “ It can do no good now. I 
will try to forget the past, and look upon 
Claude only as an ordinary acquaint- 
ance. I promise you, Elizabeth, that I 
will never refer in any way to the past 
when I am with him. In everything 
else I will do as you think best, but in 
this hear to me. I have no strength, 
no courage to bear Sir Edward’s anger.” 

“ Listen to me, Celeste,” said Eliz- 
abeth, very sternly, yet her eyes were 
dim with tears. “We have both de- 
ceived papa, I as much as you ; and 
perhaps my deception is even more 
wicked, because I am his daughter, and 
he should be first to me in everything. 
And I believe a person who has done 
wrong and has not the courage to con- 
fess it the worst of cowards. Now I 
am not a coward where I alone am 
concerned, but I am a coward when I 
am obliged to make you suffer, and I 
cannot find the force to do it. There- 
fore I shall listen to you and shall not 
confess this wrong to papa, but only on 
one condition, and that is that you 
will never allow M. le Comte de Cler- 
mont to refer in any way to the past. 
Your only safety is in that.” 

“ I never will, Elizabeth,” replied 
Celeste, solemnly, — “I never will ; the 
past is as dead to me as the future is 
hopeless.” Then she threw herself on 
her friend’s neck and they wept silently 
together. 

When Claude arrived at the Rue 
Castiglione, he found Lady Courtnay 
and Elizabeth alone in the salon ; they 
met him calmly and kindly, without the 
least demonstration of anxiety, or any 
reference to another acquaintance than 
the slight one of the previous evening. 
From their manner he understood the 
rdle he was expected to play, and he 
tacitly agreed to it, though not without 


some qualms of conscience. It would 
be difficult to describe the feelings of 
the three poor souls who were strug- 
gling to keep in the straight path, after 
the sacrifice of their own integrity, as 
they stood together over the bright 
wood-fire, awaiting the presence of the 
man they had deceived, each one talk- 
ing, but scarcely knowing what the 
other said, and neither of the three 
daring to fall into silence, fearful lest 
he or she should betray a mental in- 
quietude to the other. 

The room was filled with the calm 
that twilight brings; it had the sim- 
ple homelike look, more English than 
French, for Elizabeth had left the traces 
of her nationality everywhere. There 
were warm carpets on the floors, pictures 
on the walls, flowers growing in jardi- 
nieres at the windows, comfortable 
chairs and sofas, footstools and tete-h- 
tUes^ an open piano covered with music, 
tables fiUed with books and journals, and 
on one side of the fire a dainty work- 
stand and a low sewing-chair ; and then 
the ladies in their simple dinner-dresses 
seemed so much more lovely than in 
the lace and jewels of an evening toilet. 
Celeste’s pale blue silk dress and pearl 
ornaments set off her fair face and 
blond hair, while Elizabeth looked 
sweet and noble in simple white, with- 
out jewels or ribbons. There was a 
sincerity and naturalness about all, an 
air of elegance and comfort, without 
fashion and luxury. 

As Claude observed the details of the 
surroundings, the signs of quiet domes- 
tic life, his heart was touched to tender- 
ness and filled with the old lonmni? for 
such an existence. His retiring, gentle 
nature was created for pure family ties 
and loving companionship ; it had been 
his dream long ago at Clermont, but 
the intervention of another and the 
will of God had prevented its fulfilment. 
And he knew that now such a desire 
could never be realized, the chance was 
over for him ; another filled his place 
in the life of Celeste. She made a home 
for one who had no moral right to her, 
one who had obtained her unfairly, one 
who was utterly unworthy of the treas- 
ure he possessed, and that was perhaps 
the most bitter thought of all ; her 
husband was a selfish profligate, an 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


117 


unprincipled spendthrift. “ If he were 
but a good noble man, I could endure 
it,” he thought, “because I should 
know she was happy ; but as it is, she 
is miserable, she and Elizabeth are both 
enduring protracted martyrdom, and 
God only knows when it will end.” He 
tried to banish such unpleasant reflec- 
tions. “ I will at least be happy one 
evening in the presence of this adorable 
woman; she shall not know I suspect 
her secret, dear angel ! I will make her 
happy by seeming happy myself, and 
I will watch over both until the time 
comes when they need a friend, a 
brother; then I will be ready to aid 
them.” So he solaced himself with 
these few drops of consolation wrung 
from his pain. 

When Sir Edward entered with Ray- 
mond, they found all three engaged in 
a cheerful conversation. Elizabeth’s 
usual gravity and reticence seemed to 
have disappeared, and Celeste’s gentle 
face was beaming with smiles. 

Philip was in better humor than on 
the preceding evening; he had just 
left la helle dame, who had favored 
him with a long tete-d-tUe, and after- 
wards had invited him to drive with 
her in the Bois, where he had been 
envied by all her admirers, which flat- 
tered his vanity and encouraged his 
hopes. To Elizabeth he was most 
amiable, treating her with a sort of 
caressing deference, such as a boy might 
display toward a cherished elder sister, 
while she in turn smiled gravely at his 
nonsense, and rebuked his faults gently, 
but seriously. 

Claude took Celeste in to dinner, and 
sat at her side in a sort of happy dream. 
Dish after dish came and \Vas sent 
away without his knowing of what it 
was composed ; he ate and drank me- 
chanically, too happy to discriminate, 
and joined in the general conversation 
with remarks that appeared apropos, but 
were in fact uttered without thought. 

After the ladies had withdrawn, and 
while the gentlemen lingered over their 
wine, the conversation turned upon the 
reception of the previous evening at the 
Hotel Ventadour ; and Sir Edward in- 
quired of Claude if he, like every one 
else, had been fascinated by La Mar- 
quise. 


“ No,” replied Claude, “I think not, 
not, at least, in the way you mean ; still 
she made a most powerful impression 
upon me. I imagine it is her remarkable 
style of beauty that charms, it strikes 
one at the first glance as something 
supernatural ; her fresh, youthful face, 
surrounded by that dazzling white hair, 
has a most bizarre effect ; what could 
have so blanched it at her agel” 

Sir Edward shrugged his shoulders 
and laughed. “That is a mystery, as 
well as herself. About five years ago, 
la helle dame suddenly flashed upon 
society as La Marquise de Ventadour. 
Where the lucky octogenarian found her 
none can tell. Society went into agonies 
over the enigma, but the old Marquis 
did not live long enough to explain it, 
and the fair Gabrielle is too discreet 
and clever to reveal a secret that con- 
stitutes her greatest power ; for she 
well knows that if you set the world to 
wondering it will soon worship, and it 
does not matter who she was, she is the 
most brilliant, the most lovely, the most 
witty, and the most courted woman in 
Paris, and I might add, the most heart- 
less, for she has no more feeling than a 
mummy.” 

“You are mistaken,” said Raymond, 
with a sudden flush, “ she is not insen- 
sible. Because she is cold to the world, 
it does not follow that she is cold to 
every one. I am sure you do her 
great injustice ; she has a noble, gener- 
ous heart.” 

“ Indeed ! ” returned Sir Edward, 
“ then you have been more successful 
than her other admirers if you have 
discovered that organ.” 

“ I did not say she had a heart for 
me. Mon Dieu ! I wish she had ; she 
is in love with some one, and I can’t 
discover who it is, unless it is M. le 
Comte, for she maddens me with her 
constant praises of him.” 

“You exaggerate fearfully, Philip,” said 
Claude, impatiently ; “ Madame la Mar- 
quise wastes neither thought nor speech 
on such an ungracious churl as I am.” 

“We shall see, wait and we shall 
see,” returned Philip, oracularly, as they 
left the table to join the ladies at tea in 
the salon. 

The evening seemed to fly swiftly on 
light wings, and Claude’s spirit rose and 


118 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


floated away from the sad reality of his 
life on pinions of imaginary bliss ; he 
was intoxicated with his happiness ; the 
presence of Celeste acted like a charm. 
He listened to her while she sang, and 
her sweetly sympathetic voice softened 
him to tears ; and when she selected a 
simple little chanson that they had often 
sung together at Clermont, he could 
scarcely contain his emotion; yet he 
was not sorrowful, his heart was full of 
a delicious joy, and he abandoned him- 
self to the delight of the moment ; he 
was only conscious that he was with 
Celeste, that the sweetness of the old 
days lingered around them, that heart 
spoke to heart in a mute but powerful 
language ; often her eyes met his with 
a timid glance of joy, while smiles that 
were infantine in their freshness and 
unaffected happiness chased away the 
pensive shade from her expressive face. 
It was an hour that both remembered 
long after with mingled joy and regret, 
for it was the first unconscious step 
down that dangerous declivity from 
which it is impossible to return as 
intact as one has descended. 

Philip was as full of absurdities as a 
child ; he sang the most ridiculous 
songs, recounted the most laughable 
adventures, and recited the most amus- 
ing selections from the literature of 
different countries. 

“ Do you remember an old song I 
was never weary of hearing when we 
were children, Philip 1’’ said Elizabeth, 
with softened voice and dreamy eyes. 

“ Indeed I do, every word of it ; and 
I also remember how heart-broken you 
were if I left out one verse that you 
particularly liked, and that I particu- 
larly disliked. Will you hear it now ] 
I can repeat it with all the fervor of 
other days.” And Raymond, standing- 
up, threw back his shoulders, extended 
hands, and, assuming a tragic tone, he 
recited the whole of that quaint old 
English ballad in which the sufferings 
of Young Beichan and Susie Pye are so 
pathetically narrated. When he had 
finished he turned to Elizabeth, and, 
looking her earnestly in the face, said, 
“ We were one then, we grew together 
in thought and feeling.” 

“But we have grown far apart since 
those days, Philip,” she replied sadly. 


“ Do you also remember these lines 
of the unfortunate Marquis of Mon- 
trose ? — 

‘ But if thou wilt be constant then, 

And faithful of thy Avord, 

I ’ll make thee glorious by my pen, 

And famous by my sword. 

I ’ll serve thee in such noble ways 
Was never heard before ; 

I ’ll crown and deck thee all with bays, 
And love thee evermore.’ 

0 Elizabeth, I swear I meant it all 
then ! Whose fault is it that you are 
not wearing my bays % ” 

“ Hush, Philip, for pity’s sake don’t 
jest at our disappointment,” said the 
poor girl, bending her head over the 
piece of embroidery in her fingers, to 
hide the hot flush that crimsoned her 
face. 

“ Have you seen these exquisite 
drawings in Mademoiselle’s album % 
And Claude, as he spoke, gave the book 
through which he had been looking 
with Celeste to Raymond. “You will 
find some charming little things well 
worth examining.” 

“ Here is a beautiful impromptu 

sketch by M. D ,” said Elizabeth, 

who had recovered from her confusion, 
and now leaned over Philip as calmly 
as though no thoughtless words of his 
had ever rufided the fountain of her 
heart. “ Is it not expressive ? It illus- 
trates a verse of Lamartine’s poem, Le 

Lac. And here is another by M.C , 

suggested by Deschamp’s Petite Violette. 
They are all done a prima^ as artists 
say. Add one to them, Philip, with a 
line from one of your poems.” 

Raymond took the album, and after 
working a few moments industriously 
he returned it to Elizabeth with a 
solemn countenance. He had carefully 
drawn a skull and cross-bones, under 
which he had Avritten, Avise la Jin. 

“ 0 Philip, how could you ruin my 
book with such a horror ! ” she said, 
looking at him reproachfully ; “ see, 
papa, what a gloomy thing he has made.” 

“An eccentricity of genius,” observed 
Sir Edward, returning the album to his 
daughter. Elizabeth took it and laid 
it away with a clouded face. It was 
only a foolish jest of Philip’s, but it 
left a disagreeable impression upon her 
mind. 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


119 


Raymond walked home with Claude. 
It was a cloudless moonlit night ; and 
as they sauntered slowly down the Rue 
de Rivoli toward the Rue St. Roch, Philip 
said to his companion, “ By Jove ! I be- 
lieve Elizabeth loves me, after all. Did 
you notice her agitation when I re- 
minded her of our young days 1 ” 

“ Yes, I did,” replied Claude, “ and I 
pitied her ; you were cruel to play upon 
her feeling in that way ; she is a noble, 
beautiful girl.” 

“ She has made me suffer enough,” 
continued Raymond, reflectively. “ It is 
just my luck, now, wdien I don’t care for 
her love, she is quite ready to give it to 
,me. I am always working at cross-pur- 
poses in affairs of the heart. Heaven 
only knows how it will end with La 
Marquise. I adore her, and she plays 
with me as a cat does with a mouse.” 

“ Leave your folly with La Marquise,” 
said Claude, gravely, “ and devote your- 
self to the woman you really love, and 
who really loves you.” 

“ If I could believe it, if I was only 
sure,” returned Philip, doubtfully. I 
am never so happy anywhere nor with 
any person as I am with Elizabeth, I 
mean so sincerely happy, and yet I am 
not sure now whether I love her or not. 
How charming Lady Courtnay was this 
evening ! I never saw her so beautiful 
before. 3fo7i ami, you work a spell 
wherever you go. Hush ! look yonder 
in the shadow of the buildings on the 
other side,” said Raymond, suddenly 
lowering his voice, “ those two men are 
following us.” 

“ Following us,” repeated Claude as 
they turned into the Rue St. Roch, “ for 
what reason '1 ” 

“ Remember what I told you the 
other day ; they are spies of the secret 
police, who are tracking you ; your free- 
dom of expression has become obnoxious 
to the government ; your articles in the 
Revue have attracted too much atten- 
tion in the wrong quarter. Take care, 
or you will find that personal liberty is 
not respected under this regime any 
more than is libeidy of opinion.” 

“ In spite of all I shall be true to my 
principles ; I cannot be a slave to the 
fear of evil consequences,” returned 
Claude, as he shook hands with his 
friend at his door. 


Long after he entered his room he 
had not thought of retiring, he was too 
happy to sleep. The influence of CA 
leste’s presence still filled his heart. He 
sat by his window and looked out into 
the silent street, where the white moon- 
light lay unbroken on the deserted 
pavement that a few hours before 
had resounded with hurrying footsteps. 
“ The day has been without clouds,” 
he thought, “ and the night is se- 
rene ; my soul is filled with one object 
that love invests with every imaginable 
charm. To love and to' be loved is 
surely the greatest bliss one can experi- 
ence amid the sorrows and disappoint- 
ments of life ; it is the only joy left to 
us of the paradise that was designed for 
our inheritance. To-night I am happy, 
I might say too happy. Is it not natu- 
ral that I should be filled with rapture, 
after such a blessed hour 1 My whole 
being is full of gratitude to God. I ask 
for nothing more than the sight of her 
face, the sound of her voice, the mute 
and unconscious confession of her meek 
eyes. She loves me, I have no longer any 
doubt that adorable woman loves me 
now as she loved me in those sweet 
days of tender hope, — ay, and even bet- 
ter, for suffering has softened and puri- 
fied her passion from all earthly desires ; 
she loves me with an affection angelic 
and holy, and she understands that my 
pity, tenderness, and devotion are as 
pure as her love ; our souls are united ; 
our thoughts, our aspirations, our inten- 
tions, are blended into one sweet senti- 
ment ; at last we have reached that state 
where we can look at the past without 
regret, the present without desire, and 
the future without fear. 0 my angel, 
I will never cause thee a sorrow ! I 
will strive to lighten thy burden. I 
will live but to make thee happy. I will 
banish every thought of self from my 
heart. I will crucify my nature, I will 
purify my soul, that I may be wmrthy 
thy saintly love.” Such were the feel- 
ings and intentions that formed the 
greater part of his revery ; his mind was 
aflame with jmre and earnest desire for 
the welfare of his beloved, there was 
only the single purpose before him of 
making the woman he worshipped hap- 
pier by some sacrifice, some self-denial, 
when suddenly these questions seemed 


120 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


to be engraved upon his conscience by a 
divine finger : Has man the right to 
seek temptation in order to prove his 
moral strength % If he falls into sin, who 
will pardon him 1 By doing so, is he 
not guilty of wrong toward the one he 
loves ? “ 0 my just and pitiful God ! ” 

he cried, clasping his hands and raising 
his eyes to heaven, “ do not press this 
drop of sweetness from my life ; permit 
me to live for her, to soften a little the 
path too rugged for her tender feet.” 


PART FOURTH. 

THIS AND THAT. 

When Madame la Marquise entered 
her room, after her drive with Philip in 
the Bois, she threw herself into a chair 
wearily and dejectedly. An hour be- 
fore she had been looking from her luxu- 
rious carriage on the gayest scene im- 
aginable, her face beaming with smiles 
as she met the adoring glances of her 
numerous admirers, who followed and 
envied her as the most successful wo- 
man, in every respect, among the heau 
monde of Paris. Now she sat alone in 
the silence of her room, her jewelled 
hands clasped over the rich velvet and 
lace that rose and fell heavily above her 
throbbing heart, her eyes downcast and 
suffused with tears, the lines of her 
lovely mouth fixed in melancholy curves, 
and a shadow of regret and dissatisfac- 
tion resting upon her fair face. An 
hour before she was a creature to be en- 
vied ; now she was to be pitied, for her 
air of depression, and her sad eyes that 
seemed to be searching vacancy fbr some 
impossibility, revealed a mental inquie- 
tude and a profound discouragement. 
There was still an hour to hang heavily 
before it would be time to dress for din- 
ner, — an hour that offered her no 
amusement, no excitement. She might 
have looked over her jewels, her dresses, 
her laces, with her maid ; she might have 
sat before her mirror in her dressing- 
room, admiring her marvellous beauty, 
while she adorned herself in some new 
finery ; but she was not a woman to find 
diversion in such frivolities, there must 
be something of life, of human passion, 


of joy and sorrow, emotion, strife, desire, 
and design, to draw away her thoughts 
from their interior abstraction. There- 
fore, instead of retiring to her dress- 
ing-room, she seated herself at the win- 
dow, and looked out into the life of the 
Rue St. Dominique. There were lag- 
ging, weary, aimless passers, who came 
from nowhere, and went to no particular 
destination ; there vrere rapid, feverish, 
hurried souls impelled on by hope or 
desire ; there were indolent, languid 
beauties, who rolled dreamily along in 
their dainty equipages, scarce raising 
their white lids from their carmine- 
tinted cheeks ; there were boisterous, 
careless, dissipated students from the 
Sorbonne, who walked with a rollicking' 
air arm in arm with their favorite gri- 
settes, whose painted faces and uncovered 
heads were raised with a boldness that 
was not innocence; there were nurses 
with round, healthy cheeks, who carided 
pale children in their arms, frail flowers 
that pined and faded in that unhealthy 
quarter ; there were little boys and girls 
who walked together from school, hand 
in hand, their faces almost touching in 
the irrepressible eagerness of their inno- 
cent discourse, — little happy creatures, 
whose white, tender feet had never been 
wounded by the thorns of life ; behind 
them came a dark, stout laundress car- 
rying aloft her pole, hung with stifliy 
starched dresses that looked like head- 
less human beings dangling by the neck, 
while she sang in a resonant voice a song 
of Brittany, articulating the monoto- 
nous rhythm with the clap, clap of her 
wooden shoes. On the opposite trottoir 
some boys were haggling for chestnuts 
with an old blind woman, one little ras- 
cal attracting her attention, while the 
other fished a handful from her scantily 
filled tray. The eyes of La Marquise 
flashed at the audacious dishonesty of 
the youthful brigand, a hot flush passed 
over her face, and she partially arose, 
then sank back in her seat with a weary 
sigh. A dirty maid of all w^ork, with 
bare red arms, dragged a reluctant, cry- 
ing child along by the collar, now and 
then administering a smart blow to 
quicken its lagging steps. “ Mon Dteu ! ” 
she said fiercely, “how cruel is the hu- 
man heart. That beastly woman seems 
to rejoice in her power over the feeble 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


121 


little thing. I should like to deal stroke 
for stroke upon her broad shoulders.” 
Presently the mournful creaking of an 
organ, accompanied with a shrill, plain- 
tive human voice, fell on her ear. She 
leaned forward and looked out. An old 
man came slowly down the street, grind- 
ing and singing, while a little shaggy 
black goat trotted by his side. Just 
then a hearse rattled along with its 
sombre plumes dancing, and its long 
fringes waving in a fantastic manner, 
while the driver leaned over to nod and 
smile at a young maid who lounged 
at a porte-cochere; the horses trotted 
lightly, and the wheels clattered care- 
lessly, as though they were conscious 
that they had safely deposited a sad and 
useless burden in Pere la Chaise. It 
passed out of sight as a haggard, wild- 
eyed boy flew around a corner with his 
hands full of turnips, closely pursued by 
a gendarme. “ Poor, famished wretch ! ” 
said La Marquise, watching the fugitive 
with eager attention. “He has stolen 
them to eat, and that fat, well-fed brute 
will take them from him, and send him 
to the Madelonnettes for six months. 
0, 1 hoped he would escape ! ” she sighed, 
as the officer clutched the boy by the 
shoulder and brought him up suddenly, 
trembling with fear and exhaustion. 
“Ah, he deserves to be struck with 
palsy where he stands, the unfeeling 
monster, he deserves it! — Justin, Jus- 
tin,” she called to a servant who stood 
near the door, watching her furtively, 
“go into the street and give to the offi- 
cer who is dragging that starving boy 
to prison fifty francs to release him.” 
And she threw her purse to the man as 
she spoke. “ Do you understand ? Give 
the officer fifty, and after he has gone, 
give the boy ten to buy him some food.” 

Justin took the purse, merely saying 
with a low bow, “ I understand, ma- 
dame, I understand.” He was too well 
accustomed to his mistress’s eccentrici- 
ties to even look surprised. Again she 
heard the grating of the organ, and 
looking down into the street she saw 
that the old man with his goat had 
stopped under her window ; a number 
of children and maids had gathered 
around him, charmed with the cunning 
tricks of the little animal. It walked 
on its hind legs, and bowed and courte- 


sied and danced, whirling around swiftly 
with its forefeet over its nose. La 
Marquise leaned forward on the window- 
sill, and watched with parted lips and 
wide-open eyes every movement. They 
seemed to awaken some memory, per- 
haps of innocent happy childhood, for 
tears trembled on her lashes, and she 
sighed heavily more than once. When 
the goat had finished his little reper- 
toire of accomplishments, the old man 
began to sing, in a broken, mournful 
voice, Le Rocker de St. Malo ; and 
Madame la Marquise, seeming to forget 
that she was a lady of the Faubourg 
St. Germain, repeated with a dreamy 
voice the words that the old man sang, 
while she beat an accompaniment on 
the sill with her white fingers : — 

“ M. Duequais, me dit Pierre, 

Yeut-tu venir avec moi ? 

Tu seras homme de guerre 
Monteras la flotte du roi, 

Et tu verras les climats 
A la tete des soldats. 

Non, non, je prefere, 

Le toit de ma mk-e 
Le rocher de St. Malo, 

Que Ton voit de loin sur I’eau.” 

When the last strain died away, she 
covered her face with her hands and 
sobbed passionately for a moment ; then 
with a sudden impatient movement she 
brushed away the tears, and, folding her 
arms proudly, leaned back in her chair, 
while she seemed to be debating some 
question with herself. Her indecision 
lasted for an instant only, for she called 
again in a qlear, haughty voice, “ Justin, 
Justin.” 

Again the servant appeared ; he had 
been watching her through the folds of 
the curtain, and his thin, grave face 
was troubled. “ I wish to speak to 
that man who is singing below ; go and 
bring him up.” 

“ What, madame ! that dirty beg- 
gar 1 ” 

“Yes, that dirty beggar,” with an 
imperative wave of her hand toward 
the door as Justin hesitated; “go 
quickly.” 

A moment after the old man stood 
timidly on the threshold with the goat 
clasped in his arms, looking with amaze- 
ment at the splendor of the room. 

“ Come in, come in, my good man, 
don’t be afraid,” said La Marquise, ad- 


122 


A CEOWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


vancing toward her astonished guest. 
“ I should like to see the goat. It is 
very intelligent and pretty. You may 
go, Justin,” turning severely to the ser- 
vant, who lingered near her, regarding 
the stranger with curiosity and dislike, — 
“ you may go, and close the door after 
you.” 

The old man looked first at the rich 
carpet, and then at his coarse, dirty 
shoes, and stood trembling and confused 
before her. 

“ What do you call your goat ? ” she 
inquired gently, wishing to put the 
frightened creature at his ease, while 
she laid her hand on the shaggy head 
of the little animal. 

“Aimee,” replied the man without 
raising his eyes. 

“ Aimee,” she repeated with a gasp, 
“ that is a singular name for a goat ; 
why did you give it that name 'I ” 

“ I named it for a little girl we lost ; 
she played with it when it was a kid, 
and when we had the child no longer 
we called the goat by her name.” 

How did you lose the child 1 ” 

“ She was stolen, we never knew by 
whom ; my wife left her in the house 
alone, and wdien she returned the little 
girl was gone.” 

“Was she your child % ” 

“No, madame, she was an orphan ; 
her father was a convict ; we took her 
Avhen she was a baby, and loved her 
like our own; we lost all we had, ma- 
dame, and she filled a little their place. 
She was pretty and so clever, 0, she was 
too clever for her age, and we grew so 
fond of her; then she was stolen, and 
we never saw her again.” The old 
man’s voice was broken, and the tears 
trickled down his furrowed face and 
dropped one by one on the head of the 
goat that had fallen asleep in his 
arms. 

“ What brought you to such pover- 
ty 1” inquired La Marquise in a choked 
voice, while she clasped her hands 
tightly over her heart. 

“ After we lost the child everything 
went badly ; the animals died, and my 
poor wife took the fever, and I wjis left 
alone ; then I broke my arm, and I could 
not till the little piece of land, and so it 
was taken away and I had nothing to 
Rve for ; the old place was ruined for me, 

/ 


and Hwandered about from one towm to 
another, until at last I came here. For 
more than twenty years, madame, my 
only companion and friend has been my 
goat that the child Aimee played with ; 
she is very intelligent, almost like a hu- 
man being,” he said, looking at the little 
animal fondly ; “ but I can’t keep her 
much longer, she is old, very old now, 
and quite weak, and would like to sleep 
the most of the time, so I fear I shall 
soon lose her. I don’t know how 1 shall 
live without her, for no one would listen 
to my songs if Aimee’s tricks did not 
attract them first. With her I manage 
to pick up sous enough to keep us from 
starving.” 

“ Have no fears, my good man, you 
shall not want for bread if you do lose 
the poor goat,” said La Marquise, in a 
quick, sharp voice, that had more dis- 
tress in it than even the old man’s 
trembling tones, as she turned toward 
an escritoire and took from it a roll of 
notes. “ Here is enough money to pay 
your way back to your old home, and 
keep you there in comfort for a long 
time. Take it, take it, and don’t look 
at it now,” she cried, pressing it impet- 
uously into his hand, while he drew 
back in astonishment that was almost 
fear. “ It is a great deal more than 
you have ever had before ; it will keep 
you from want. Don’t thank me. I 
will not have your thanks. Put the 
money in a safe place where no one will 
steal it, and go, go quickly. It is a 
pleasure for me to give it to you ; it is 
a kindness for you to take it. Do not 
thank me, go, go ” And she hurried 
the bewildered old man toward the 
door with such haste that he could not 
collect his senses so as to be able to 
utter a word. When he had gone, and 
she found herself alone, she threw her 
head back and clasped her hands over 
her face like one in gi’eat distress ; and 
there was something tragic in her at- 
titude and voice as she cried, “ Mon 
Dieu ! there are some born to blight 
and crush those who have heaped ben- 
efits upon them.” Then she paced the 
floor rapidly, her face paling and flush- 
ing, while the dilated nostrils, trembling 
lips, and restless eyes showed that she 
was laboring under some powerful emo- 
tion. A little rustling sound at the 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


123 


closed door attracted her attention. 
She paused before it, and shook her 
head significantly, while her white 
teeth snapped sharply together, and 
her hands smote each other with a 
cruel ferocity. “ He is there again lis- 
tening.” And she fixed her gleaming 
eyes on the door like an enraged tiger 
about to spring. “ Ungrateful, miser- 
able spy, he watches me as if he were 
paid for it. Ma foi ! one would think 
he had taken a contract to listen. 
Shall I open the door and strike his 
head off at a blow 1 Coward, beast, to 
dare to do such a thing. I will turn 
him from my house, he shall not tor- 
ture me with his presence.” Then a 
sickly smile stole over her face, and 
her hands fell heavil}’. “ No, no,” she 
added, in slow, discouraged tones, “it 
is no use, he is my skeleton, my hete 
noir ; he would torment me the same 
wherever he was. I may as well sup- 
port him here.” And with an irresolute 
and weary air she turned toward her 
dressing-room. 

An hour after La Marquise stood in 
the library before the glowing fire, her 
elbow resting on the velvet cover of 
the mantle, her forehead pressed into 
her open palm, and her eyes fixed on 
the restless flames, that danced and 
flickered, throwing fantastic lights and 
shades upon her face and dress. It 
was the same hour, in fact the same 
moment, when Claude stood with Ce- 
leste and Elizabeth in the salon in the 
Rue Castiglione, trying to subdue the 
imperious demands of his heart ; and 
La Marquise, alone in the twilight, was 
thinking of him, wondering where he 
was, in whose society, and what was 
the subject of his thoughts at that mo- 
ment. Had his memory turned to her 
since he parted from her so abruptly 
the previous evening % Had he desired 
to see her again 1 Should she see him 
soon, and when and where 1 Philip 
had told her that his friend never went 
to the opera, never went into society, 
never rode in the Bois during the fash- 
ionable promenade ; how, then, could 
she see him 1 Her need to speak with 
him again was imperative. Many 
things that she had intended to say 
to him in the excitement of that short 
interview had passed from her mind, 


and she regretted that she had only 
half imj^roved the time. She feared 
she had not left the impression upon 
his heart that she had hoped to 
leave. She felt that she had startled 
and bewildered him, more than she had 
attracted and charmed him. The vast- 
ness in the dissimilarity of their mo- 
tives, aims, and desires appalled her. 
She knew that he stood far above her 
in the nobility and integrity of his 
nature ; that he could not stoop to her, 
and alas ! it was too late to grow up to 
him ; there was a line of demarcation 
between them, over which she could 
not pass, and she understood well that 
all her personal advantages were en- 
tirely worthless to such a soul as his. 
“If I could but do some good deed, 
something to win his approbation, then 
I might hope for his friendship, if 
nothing more,” she thought, while she 
vexed her heart and brain to discover 
some means of immolation, some chance 
to distinguish herself in a manner 
worthy of his approval. While she 
was absorbed with this new idea, and 
intent on contemplating the imaginary 
results, the door opened, and Moiiseign- 
eur the Bishop of Rouen was an- 
nounced. 

La Marquise did not change her 
position. Holding out her disengaged 
hand, she said indifferently, and with a 
little impatience, “ I thought you had 
returned to Rouen, monseigneur.” 

“ No, although I intended it, I found 
I could not leave before the council 
adjourned,” replied the Bishop, seating 
himself with the air of one quite at 
home. 

“ And the Archbishop, is he recover- 
ing from his indisposition 1 ” 

“ He is worse. I have been sum- 
moned to his bedside.” 

“ You will go 

“ Certainly, by the first train.” 

“ If he dies, you will be promoted to 
his sacred office I ” 

“It is what I have worked for. I 
think I have earned it.” 

“ Will your ambition be gratified 
then 'I ” 

“No, I must go a step higher.” 

“ And then 1 ” 

“ I shall be content.” 

“ Without remorse, without regret ? ” 


124 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


“ Perhaps not without regret ; there 
is always regret mingled with our hap- 
piness, the regret that we did not reach 
it sooner ; hut remorse is punishment 
for great sin, have I done aught to 
merit it ^ ” 

“ I think you have, monseigneur.” 

“ Ah ! you are always severe ; be my 
accuser then; what have I done that 
is so heinous in your estimation 1 ” 

“You have trampled upon the rights 
of others ; you have not cared whom you 
crushed, so you conquered.” 

“ Grave charges,” said the Bishop, 
while a hot flush crimsoned his face ; 
“ are you sure you speak advisedly, 
madame ? ” 

“ I am sure I speak the truth. Look 
back and see if there are not things in 
your past that will not bear the closest 
scrutiny,” replied La Marquise, fear- 
lessly and sternly. “ 0 m on seigneur, if 
you are about to fill a still more im- 
portant office in the holy Church, ex- 
amine your heart and see if there are in 
it justice, truth, and charity.” 

“You are a severe monitor, madame, 
but I wdll remember j^our advice, and 
strive to i^rofit by it ; now allow me to 
give ^ou a little counsel, which you may 
find useful in the future. Be careful 
how you receive M. le Comte de Cler- 
mont ; he is suspected ; he is a Republi- 
can and a traitor, and he is under the 
surveillance of the government. Do you 
understand what that implies 'i ” 

“ Yes,” replied La Marquise, turning 
pale and starting from her indolent 
position, — “ yes, I understand that it 
implies punishment for daring to speak 
the truth ; the truth is passe, and lies 
take the precedence ; therefore a man 
must be silent, or lie to pamper the 
iniquity, injustice, and deception of this 
despotic reign.” 

“ Hush, hush, you talk at random. 
Agitators and would-be regenerators, 
free-thinkers, and communists are trai- 
tors to the goveniment, and should be 
treated as such.” 

“What proof is there that M. le 
Comte de Clermont is connected with 
either of the parties you name 1 ” 

“ He is the author of the article on 
Equity, that has caused such indigna- 
tion from all who are lovers of order 
and restraint.” 


“ It is false, he is not the author of 
that article,” said La Marquise, fixing 
her eyes upon the face of the Bishop 
with a steady gaze that did not flinch, 
“neither is he a contributor to the 
Revue, The secret police are at fault, 
they are on the wrong trail ; cannot you 
convince them that it is so % ” 

“No, for I am not convinced myself, 
and you were just advocating truth, 
truth under all circumstances.” 

La Marquise frowned and bit her 
lips, and the Bishop looked at her com- 
placently, feeling that he had cornered 
her ; and perhaps she felt so too, for she 
smiled half scornfully, half pettishly, 
and said, “ 0 monseigneur, after all, 
it is a garment that one stretches 
to fit his needs ; cannot you accom- 
modate it to this necessity % ” 

“ No, for it is not my necessity, and 
I am not generous toward other peo- 
ple’s.” 

“There, your true character shines 
out most beautifully, other people’s ne- 
cessities do not trouble you. I wonder,” 
looking at him sadly and reflectively, 
— “I wonder when the time comes 
that you shall need an advocate, a me- 
diator, who will present himself on your 
behalf! Perhaps this unhappy young 
man whom you are determined to 
crush ; he has the noble soul that for- 
gets injuries.” 

“ You speak as though you believed 
I had some personal animosity against 
M. le Comte de Clermont.” 

“ He has never wronged you, and yet 
you hate him, and you will strive to 
ruin him utterly, I am convinced of 
it,” said La Marquise, with stern de- 
liberation ; then her voice softened to a 
sob, and she added, “ 0 monseigneur, if 
you have no pity for him, have some 
for those who suffer with him ! ” 

At this appeal, the Bishop rose and 
paced the floor in agitation ; his face was 
pale, and his eyes were full of a lurid 
light, while his fingers twisted convul- 
sively the heavy chain attached to his 
cross. When he turned his back, and 
walked hurriedly down the room. La 
Marquise clasped her hands, and raised 
her eyes, saying with a gasp, “ 0 God, 
soften his heart ! ” Then she turned and 
followed him, gliding with a serpent- 
like grace over the rich carpet, the soft 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


125 


trailing sheen of her dress making a 
shimmer of light after her. When she 
reached him she laid her hand on his 
shoulder; the touch was light, but it 
made him shiver, and bending forward 
she looked into his eyes with the most 
persuasive smile, saying, “ Mo7i pere, 
you have never yet refused to make me 
happy. You know what I wish ; prom- 
ise me that you will not denounce him 
to the government ; promise me but 
that, and you will have my eternal 
gratitude.” 

The Bishop did not reply. La Mar- 
quise still continued to gaze into his 
face, her very soul in her eyes. For 
more than a minute they stood thus, 
each trying to penetrate into the hid- 
den thoughts of the other. Then she 
said, “You will not promise me 1 ” 

“ I cannot.” 

“ You cannot 1 ” Quicker than light- 
ning the hand fell from his shoulder, 
and starting away from him she stood 
with folded arms looking at him steadi- 
ly, contempt and hate plainly written on 
her face ; then raising her right hand 
she pointed to the door, saying in slow, 
deep tones, “ Go, Judas, go ! I have seen 
you for the last time. Henceforth there 
is a gulf between us that nothing can 
bridge over. I have reached the crisis 
of my suffering; there will be a day 
when yours will also arrive. Then may 
you experience my pain a thousand 
times intensified. Go, not a word, go ! ” 

The Bishop slowly retreated toward 
the door, bowing as he went like one 
leaving the presence of royalty. His 
face was ghastly, drops of sweat stood 
on his forehead, and his eyes seemed 
flames of fire devouring the face of La 
Marquise, as she stood, the impersona- 
tion of scorn and hate. When the heavy 
curtain fell over the door and hid him 
from her sight, her arms dropped help- 
lessly, and she sank with a heart-break- 
ing sigh into the nearest chair. “ It is 
done, it is done. I would have saved 
him, but I could not. Judas I Judas ! 
thou wilt suffer a terrible agony of 
remorse when thou hast completed 
thy cruel betrayal. Thou wilt live to 
look upon my dead face, and know that 
thy ambition, thy revenge, thy mer- 
ciless hate, extinguished its light for- 
ever.” 


PART FIFTH. 

IN WHICH SIR Edward’s motive is ' 
OBVIOUS. 

“ Good morning, my dear fellow, 
good morning,” exclaimed Sir Edward, 
with more than usual animation, as he 
entered Claude’s room some two months 
after he had dined in the RueCastiglione; 
“ I am delighted to find you disengaged, 
as I have called on the merest trifle of 
business, the merest trifle ; let me assure 
you that I won’t detain you five min- 
utes.” 

Claude gave a chair to his visitor, 
while he said cordially that he was 
quite at his service for as long a time 
as he pleased to remain. 

“Thanks, thanks, my dear fellow; 
you are always a true Frenchman, you 
always understand how to place people 
quite at their ease ; but it ’s only a 
matter of a moment, the merest trifle ; 
do me the favor, my good fellow, to 
lend me three thousand francs for a few 
days.” 

“ Certainly, with the greatest pleas- 
ure,” replied Claude, heartily. “ I am 
most happy to be able to serve you in 
any way.” These were not merely the 
usual complimentary words employed 
between gentlemen during the like deli- 
cate transactions. When he said, “ I am 
happy to serve you,” he meant it, for 
he well knew in that way he was 
serving Celeste, though indirectly. 

So without the slightest hesitation 
he wrote a check for the amount, for 
which Sir Edward with the most busi- 
nesslike importance returned his note, 
that Claude knew to be as worthless as 
the paper on which it was written, 
saying in a tone of assumed indifference, 

“ Thanks, my dear fellow ; not at all 
necessary between gentlemen, but still 
more business-like, more in order, in 
case of accident, you understand.” 

Claude assured him that he under- 
stood, and quietly laid the note on the 
check, which Sir Edward, without ap- 
pearing to notice, folded together and 
slipped into his pocket. “Now another 
little matter,” he continued, briskly. 

“ Monthelon is in the market, to be 
sold next week ; a perfectly useless lot 
of property to me, monsieur; it has 
actually eaten itself up, and so I have 


126 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


determined to be rid of it ; not the least 
use in the world of keeping an estate like 
that when one don’t live on it ; I believe 
it joins your estate of Clermont ? ” 
Claude winced ; how had he learned 
that. If he knew that, did he not also 
know more 1 “ And I thought you might 
like to become its purchaser. To unite it 
to yours would increase the value of 
both. Think of it, monsieur, think of 
it ; it would make a fine property.” 

“ It would indeed,” said Claude. “ I 
shall consider the matter, and decide 
without doubt to become its owner.” 

Sir Edward saw that M. le Comte, 
for some reason, was not inclined to be 
expansive on the subject ; so he took his 
hat, shook hands cordially, and went 
away humming an air from the last 
opera with the utmost nonchalance^ 
while he thought, “ Another little 
annoyance over; after all, it is not so 
disagreeable to have affairs with gentle- 
men. How cleverly he returned me my 
note ! I wonder if he suspected it was 
■worthless. Ha, ha ! he is either very 
generous or very stupid, or perhaps it is 
an advance ; he intends to ask for Eliza- 
beth, there ’s no doubt but what he is 
fond of the girl ; and if he wants her he 
shall have her. In that way Monthelon 
can be kept in the family. A devilish 
clever idea of mine to suggest its pur- 
chase before he proposed for her ; more 
dignified in every way, and in the end 
amounts to the same. One may as well 
preserve his self-respect when he loses 
nothing by it. Three thousand francs, 
a nice little sum to pay my tailor and 
hostler ; a man can’t get clothes and 
horses without money, especially after 
his credit is gone, and there is no use 
in living in Paris if one can’t dress well, 
go to the opera, and ride in the Bois. 
It is a mystery to me how those two 
women manage the house and dress so 
well without money. I suspect Lady 
Courtnay has sold her jewels, and it is 
just as well if she has, for she never 
wore them, her beauty is not of the 
style to need them. So, so, ma belle, 
you thought to make me jealous when 
you told me of the youthful amour 
between M. le Comte and my wife. 
Bah ! what do I care how many she 
loved before she loved me 1 No, no, I am 
not such a fool as to break off this very 


useful friendship, and the prospect of 
an excellent alliance for Elizabeth, be- 
cause of sentimental scruples. Ah, ma 
belle Marquise, you are very clever, but 
you can’t deceive me. You are in love 
with M. le Comte yourself, and you 
fear he still has some 'penchant for Lady 
Courtnay. I am not in the least dis- 
tressed by your revelations, but I am 
surprised that my wife has enough 
finesse to keep her former connection a 
secret. How in the name of heaven 
has La Marquise learned it all ? She 
seems to know more about M. le Comte 
than any one else, and yet she has seen 
him less, for Raymond says he avoids 
her. When I spoke of Monthelon being 
near Clermont, it is true he changed the 
subject as though it did not please him. 
However, I sha’ n’t quarrel with him, he 
is too useful.” With this generous con- 
clusion, Sir Edward turned into the Rue 
de Rivoli, and sauntered along, smiling 
and bowing to his fair friends wdth a 
grace and suavity that younger beaux 
admired and imitated. 

After his visitor had gone, Claude sat 
for a long time in deep thought. Mon- 
thelon was to be sold, and he then and 
there decided to become its purchaser. 
He knew that it had long before been 
mortgaged to its full value, but he had 
hoped Sir Edward would devise some 
means to retain it in his possession for 
the sake of his wife. That it was really 
in the market showed how entire was 
the ruin of her fortune, and how utterly 
she was without provision for the fu- 
ture. The property that the poor old 
manufacturer had toiled so hard to 
accumulate for his child had been dimin- 
ished by her guardian, and the remain- 
der squandered by her profligate hus- 
band, and now nothing remained for her 
and the equally unfortunate Elizabeth 
but poverty. Claude had foreseen that 
this day must come, some two months 
before, when he had made the unselfish- 
resolve to be only her friend, and he 
had then decided what course he should 
pursue. “Now,” he said to himself, 
“ the time has arrived when I can se- 
cure to her the home of her childhood, 
and place her beyond want. It will cost 
me a great sacrifice, not less than the 
half of my fortune, but it shall l.e 
done. She shall have Monthelon so- 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


127 


cured to her if I have the means to do 
it.” That very day Claude took the 
preliminary steps toward the accom- 
plishment of his plans, but fate frus- 
trated them in a way he little expected. 
During the two months since his first 
visit to the Rue Castiglione, scarcely a 
day had passed that he had not seen 
Celeste ; indeed, the importunate ad- 
vances of Sir Edward rendered formality 
almost impossible, even if his own in- 
clination had opposed a close acquaint- 
ance, and how much more easy it was 
to drift toward such an intimacy when 
every feeling was in its favor. They 
had been days of almost unalloyed hap- 
piness to both him and Celeste ; neither 
dared to confess it, and yet they both 
knew it well, and they also knew that 
if circumstances should put an end to 
their blissful intercourse they should 
regret it forever. Elizabeth seemed to 
have resigned herself to let matters 
take their course ; her confidence in 
Claude and her warm friendship for him 
pleaded powerfully in his favor. Sir 
Edward had known nothing until the 
day before his demand upon M. le 
Comte’s generosity • then La Marquise 
had enlightened him, to the end that he 
might disturb the influence that she 
had discovered Lady Coiirtnay still ex- 
ercised over her former lover, but she 
had not found the aid she expected from 
a jealous husband. He had received 
her information with the utmost sang 
froid^ for reasons which the first part 
of this chapter render obvious, so noth- 
ing had occurred to derange their se- 
rene relations. 

lia Marquise had not made the pro- 
gress in her friendship with Claude 
which she had hoped to do, although 
she had written to him, after her stormy 
interview with the Bishop, and request- 
ed him in the most earnest manner to 
avoid expressing his liberal opinions too 
openly if he valued his personal safety 
and freedom ; yet she could not per- 
ceive that it had advanced her cause in 
the least. It is true he had called to 
thank her for her interest, and had con- 
versed with her for some time in the 
most winning and gracious manner, but 
he had persistently disregarded all her 
delicate overtures of a more intimate 
relation. He had never again appeared 


at her Friday soirees, never came to her 
box at the opera, never rode by her side 
in the Bois; in short, never paid her 
any of those little attentions which her 
heart desired, and his very indifference 
fed her passion and fanned it to a flame. 
She was more eccentric, more uncertain, 
more cruel, more passionate than ever. 
There were whole weeks when she ab- 
sented herself from the world and closed 
her doors to all, whole days and nights 
when she wept and prayed in her little 
oratory alone, refusing food until she 
was exhausted with fasting, shutting 
out the light of the sun and the sound 
of human voices, until her own thoughts 
and her restless, feverish soul drove her 
back again to the world. At that time 
the enemies of La Marquise said she 
was thinner, that her form was losing 
its roundness, her lines their undulating 
grace, her movements their serpent-like 
flexibility ; that her fiice was too pale, 
her eyes too intense in their expression, 
the violet shadows around them too 
deep, and her mouth too depressed at 
the corners ; that she seemed absorbed, 
dreamy, restless, expansive, reticent, 
and reckless, by turns ; in fact, that she 
seemed like a person consumed by an 
inward fire which she kept alive by her 
own inconsistencies. 

Philip was in despair at her capricious 
conduct ; one day she would receive him 
with a kindness that was almost tender, 
another day with stern, cold indiffer- 
ence, and again with evident dislike. 
There were terribly tempestuous scenes 
between them. Philip would accuse, 
reproach, and implore. La Marquise 
would relent, soften to penitence, en- 
treat his forgiveness for her cruelty, and 
be all gentleness, all sensibility, until 
some expression of love and confidence 
from him would startle her from her 
tranquillity into an insane passion ; then 
she would heap all sorts of invectives 
upon him, upbraiding, taunting, and in- 
sulting, in such a manner that he would 
fly from her presence almost terrified. 
If he liked emotion he had enough of 
it, ay, and too much, for his life was a 
torture, a constant tumult of hope, dis- 
appointment, and desire. He did noth- 
ing; every occupation, every improve- 
ment, every diversion, was neglected that 
he might indulge this unreasonable and 


128 


. A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


despotic passion. Sometimes he com- 
pared this conflict with his placid affec- 
tion for Elizabeth, and then he was 
ready to curse the day when this cruel 
enchantress had lured him away from 
his loyalty to the most noble woman he 
had ever known. One morning, after a 
sleepless night, he arose determined to 
end the struggle then and forever, either 
by gaining a conquest or suffering a de- 
feat. Pale, stern, and resolved, he 
marched toward the Hotel de Venta- 
dour, repeating to himself, 

“ He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 

Who will not put it to the touch, 

To win or lose it all.” 

He was shown into the boudoir of La 
Marquise. She was lying on the same 
rose-colored sofa, dressed in the same 
velvet peignoir, as she was the first time 
we saw her, her head thrown back, her 
hands clasped over her forehead, and 
her hollow eyes fixed with a mournful 
calm on the sorrow-stricken face of the 
Niobe. She gave her hand languidly 
and indifferently to Philip as he seated 
himself by her side ; it was cold and 
damp, and there was no light of love, 
no fire of passion, in the slow, still gaze 
of her heavy eyes. 

There was something solemnly por- 
tentous in this unnatural composure 
that disheartened and chilled Ray- 
mond’s intention ; it seemed like sacri- 
lege to speak of human passion and 
desire in the presence of such evident 
mental suffering. So after the first 
quiet greeting he sat in silence, with his 
eyes fixed upon her changed face, until 
she turned toward him and said, “ Phil- 
ip, have you read La Liherte this morn- 
ing 1 ” 

“No, why do you ask me 1 ” 

“ There is another article, so daring, 
so full of the spirit of emancipation, so 
revolutionary, that it will seal his doom. 
I have used all my influence for him 
and with him, but it has been in vain ; 
believe me, his liberty, and perhaps his 
life, is only a question of days. Last 
night I sent for him to come to me. I 
warned him, I implored him to leave 
the country while there was still time ; 
but he refused, utterly refused, declar- 
ing he would remain and bear the con- 
sequences, whatever they might be. 0 


Philip, he has a noble, fearless soul, but 
a stern, unpitying heart. He saw I suf- 
fered, but my suffering did not move 
him ! ” 

“You suffered? Then it is M. le 
Comte de Clermont to whom you have 
given your heart ? You love him ! ” 

“Yes, so well that beside him I have 
no other hope in life, no other desire, 
no other thought. I would give my 
life to save him from ruin, and he will 
not be saved by me ; he scorns me, he 
despises me; my sacrifice has been in 
vain.” 

Philip covered his face with his 
hands and moaned aloud in the pain 
of his disappointment, regret, and sor- 
row. 

“ I hoped,” she continued in the 
same calm, even voice, — “I hoped that 
my interest, my anxiety for his safety, 
would at least win his friendship ; but 
it has not ; there is something in me 
that repels him, he looks upon me with 
fear and distrust.” Then seeming to 
notice for the first time that Raymond 
was weeping beside her, she laid her 
hand on his bowed head, and said with 
extreme gentleness, “ Dear Philip, do 
not add to my other sorrows the sight 
of your suffering. Listen to me, mon 
ami, I wish to speak to you seriously 
and solemnly. I have a request to 
make, which you who love me will not 
refuse. It is for your own good, your 
own salvation. It seems to be my fate 
to ruin and blight those I love, those I 
w’ould save. I wish to send you top 
away from a danger, the danger of my 
presence. I do not love you, I shall 
never love you, and you love me, and 
your unrequited passion is crushing 
you with its power. I might keep you 
here in selfish bondage to comfort me 
with your affection, your tenderness, 
your sympathy. I might delude you 
still further with the hope of some fu- 
ture reciprocation, but it would be a 
most cruel injuptice to you, and would 
but add a greater burden to my future 
remorse. Therefore let me implore you 
to leave me now, while I have the 
strength to send you from me. I may 
not have it to-morrow, I may not have 
it in an hour. I have no confidence in 
my good intentions. I have wronged 
you, I have wronged many, and I may 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR, 


129 


wrong many more ; but now at this mo- 
ment my desire to save you is sincere \ 
then leave me, leave Paris for a time, 
seek in new scenes a cure for your sick 
heart, strive to forget me and the fatal 
passion that can work you only ill.” 

“ 0 Gabrielle, I implore you to have 
some compassion,” cried Raymond, fall- 
ing on his knees before her, and clasp- 
ing her hands to his tear- wet face ; do 
not banish me from your presence. I 
love you, I adore you, I am more than 
happ3^ to kneel at your feet,” he added, 
forgetting all his resolution of the morn- 
ing. In her presence every resolve was 
swept away, and now he would bow in 
the dust if he might but be her slave, 
subject to her most imperious demands, 
her most cruel caprices. 

For a moment she looked at him 
pityingly, then she leaned forward and 
took his face between her palms, while 
she said in a voice of impressive firm- 
ness, “ Philip, you must go ; the only 
way you can convince me of your love 
is to leave me directly, and Paris to- 
night ; it is imperative that you should 
go. If you refuse, if ^’’ou remain to an- 
noy me by your presence, I shall hate 
and despise you. If you obey me, I 
shall love and respect you, and implore 
God to make you happy. Will you go, 
dear Philip?” 

There was a sweet earnestness in her 
face, a tender pathos and gentle firm- 
ness in her voice, that seemed to touch 
some depths in his nature never before 
stirred, and he hesitated no longer. 
Lifting his eyes calmly to hers, that 
were fixed upon him with infinite pity, 
he said, “ I will obey you, Gabrielle. I 
will leave Paris to-night, but I shall 
never forget you, never cease to love 
you.” 

She parted the hair from his forehead 
with her soft white fingers, and bending 
over him she pressed a long kiss upon it, 
the first and the last. Then Philip 
left her presence without a word ; but as 
the door closed, a stifled sob fell upon 
her ear, and wrenched her heart with a 
spasm of pain. 

An hour after Philip entered the 
salon in the Rue Castiglione. Elizabeth 
was reading tranquilly La Libert'e to 
Lady Courtnay \ and just as the door 
opened she said, with rather languid in- 


terest, ‘‘ I wonder w^ho can be so fear- 
less and independent as to dare to write 
this article.” When her eyes fell upon 
Raymond’s pale, agitated face, the paper 
dropped from her hands and she ex- 
claimed, “ Are you ill, Philip ? ” 

“ No, not ill, but miserable. I have 
come to say good by. I leave Paris to- 
night, for Florence.” 

“ Leave Paris to-night ! ” cried both 
ladies in astonishment. “ Why so sud- 
denly ? ” 

“P^or reasons that I cannot explain,” 
he replied with a troubled glance at 
Elizabeth, who had turned deathly pale. 

“ When will jmu return ? ” inquired 
Celeste. 

“ God only knows if ever. But I 
have not a moment. I have a thousand 
things to arrange, and only a few hours 
for all. Good b}'', Lady Courtna}'. Good 
by, Elizabeth. God bless 3^011, may 3mu 
be happier than I am ! ” And wringing 
the hands of both he rushed from the 
room impetuously. 

When he had gone they stood looking 
at each other for a moment, then Eliza- 
beth threw herself into the arms of Ce- 
leste and burst into a passionate fit of 
weeping. 

That night at the dinner-table Sir 
Edward Courtnay looked curiously at 
his daughter’s pale cheeks and red eyes 
and then said, “ So Ra3miond leaves to- 
night for Italy 1 He has quarrelled 
with La Marquise, and gone off in a ter- 
rible state.” 

“ He came to say adieu, and he did 
seem very much troubled ; I thought it 
was only his sorrow at leaving,” hazard- 
ed Celeste rather timidly, while she 
glanced at Elizabeth. 

“ Ah, he came here, did he? and that 
is the cause of your red eyes, my daugh- 
ter,” said Sir Edward, sternly, following 
his wife’s glance. “ I hope you have 
more sense than to waste 3'our tears on 
such a good-for-nothing.” Neither of 
the ladies replied, and he continued, “ I 
have my plans for 3mu, Elizabeth. I am 
expecting a proposal for you every day 
from M. le Comte de Clermont, an ex- 
cellent parti in every way ; of course I 
shall not refuse to give 3mu to him. 
You know that owing to my ill luck — 
my misfortunes, I might say — I can- 
not give you a dot, Elizabeth ; so we 


130 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


must accept the offer of the first one 
who will take you without.” 

0 papa, I implore you not to speak 
of such a thing,” cried Elizabeth, with 
real distress. “ M. le Comte de Cler- 
mont does not care for me in the least, 
he has not the least intention of asking 
me to be his wife.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Sir Edward in tones 
of cruel deliberation, “ then why does 
he come here so often 1 Why is he a con- 
stant visitor, if it is not for the pleasure 
of my daughter’s society 1 ” 

Elizabeth turned crimson, and Celeste 
looked like one ready to faint, but 
neither replied. 

“ 0, I understand ! Then it must be 
that he is still in love with my wife, 
who, I have been told by strangers, was 
once affianced to him.” 

Celeste sprang from her chair, looked 
at her husband for a moment with wild 
eyes, clasped her hands to her head, 
and fell back in the arms of Elizabeth, 
fainting. 

Sir Edward was terrified at the scene 
he had caused by his ill-advised re- 
marks ; and while Elizabeth hung over 
his wife, trying to restore her to con- 
sciousness, he walked the floor wringing 
his hands and reproaching himself for 
having been such a stupid fool. When 
at last Celeste struggled to a sitting po- 
sition, and, pushing Elizabeth away, 
held out her hand to her husband, he 
came forward thoroughly willing to meet 
her advances, saying, “For God’s sake 
don’t make a fuss. I was only jesting. 
I don’t care in the least that you kept 
it from me.” 

“I kept it from you,” said Celeste, 
with a burst of tears, “ because both 
Elizabeth and myself thought it best at 
first, and then after we had deceived 
you we were afraid to acknowledge it.” 

“ I did it for the best, papa,” said 
Elizabeth, coming forward boldly to 
the support of her friend. “ It was my 
fault that Lady Courtnay did not tell 
you at once, but I thought we should 
never meet M. le Comte again.” 

“ And so you were leagued together 
against me 1 ” And Sir Edward laughed 
heartily, as though he rather enjoyed 
the idea. 

“ Now, papa, that you know it,” con- 
tinued Elizabeth, gravely, for she was 


shocked and somewhat disgusted at 
her father’s hilarity, “ I hope you wull 
give M. le Comte de Clermont to un- 
derstand that he must not come here 
again.” 

“ Nonsense ! what do you mean, you 
foolish girl ? ” inquired the Baronet, with 
real surprise, for he did not in the 
least understand his daughter’s high- 
minded view of the subject. “ Tell 
him not to come here, offend M. le 
Comte, such a useful friend ! why, you 
must be insane ! ” 

“ 0 papa, can’t you understand that 
it — that under the circumstances it is 
not quite right ; that now you know it, 
that — 0 papa, you ought to know 

what I mean without my being obliged 
to explain,” cried Elizabeth, in despera- 
tion at the insensibility of her father. 

“ Explain, explain, there is nothing 
to explain. M. le Comte was once en- 
gaged to Lady Courtnay. Is that a 
reason that I should shut my door in 
his face 1 He is a gentleman, and very 
useful ; an excellent friend. By Jove ! 
I could n’t offend him, if I had cause for 
it, under the circumstances.” And Sir 
Edward thought of the three thousand 
francs that he had borrowed a few days 
before, and of the indefinite amounts he 
intended to borrow in the future. 

Poor Elizabeth made no further effort 
to maintain her righteous opinion. 
She saw that her father was determined 
to disregard every hint and ignore 
every reason for closing his door 
against M. le Comte de Clermont, and 
she was too weary to combat it any 
longer, so she only said, laying her 
hand tenderly on Celeste’s head, “ Well, 
papa, you know all now, and' you must 
never blame us, whatever may happen 
in the future. Only if you have any 
intention of trying to arrange a mar- 
riage between M. le Comte and myself, 

I may as well tell you now that it is 
labor lost, and that I shall do all in my 
power to discourage it.” 

“ You and Lady Courtnay will both 
continue to treat M. le Comte in the 
same friendly manner that you have 
done,” said Sir Edward, impressively. 
“ Remember it is my wish ; do that, and 
matters will arrange themselves satis- 
factorily to all.” With these words ho 
left the room, feeling that ho had be- 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


131 


haved generously and judiciously, and 
had discharged his duty toward his 
wife and daughter in the most ad- 
mirable maimer. 

Celeste had feared a time of exposure 
might come, and she had imagined if it 
ever did that it would crush her ut- 
terly. She had said to herself over and 
over that she never could survive it, 
that it would kill her at once. It had 
been the sword hanging over her head 
by a single hair, the skeleton at her 
feast, the imperative voice that had 
disturbed the tranquillity of her con- 
science ever since the night when she 
had been presented to Claude at the 
Hotel Ventadour by her unsuspecting 
husband. Now the storm had come 
and passed, and she was relieved, and 
thankful that it had done so little 
damage. She had expected her hus- 
band, at the discovery of such a gross 
deception, would crush and kill her 
with his indignation ; but, instead, he 
had not even seemed angry. She felt 
almost like worshipping him for such 
unparalleled kindness. So she said to 
Elizabeth, with a sigh of relief, “ I am 
so glad it is over. 0 cherie, how good 
Sir Edward is to us ! We ought to love 
him very much for his indulgence and 
gentleness ; we deserved to be pun- 
ished, and he did not even blame us.” 

“ Remember it always, darling ; a 
time may come when you will need the 
memory of all his kindness to support 
you under trials that may be difficult 
to endure,” replied Elizabeth, sadly. 
Then she kissed Celeste, and went away 
to her room to brood over her own 
sorrows alone. 


PART SIXTH. 

ONE OP THE FORTUITOUS EVENTS THAT 
• WE CALL FATE. 

One fine morning in April, and a few 
days after the events recorded in the 
last chapter, Claude walked down the 
Rue Castiglione. A carriage stood at Sir 
Edward’s door, and as he mounted the 
stairs he met the Baronet and Lady 
Coiirtnay descending. 

“ A few moments later and you would 


have missed us altogether,” said Sir 
Edward, shaking hands cordially. “ We 
are just starting for Poissy, to pass the 
day with some friends who have a villa 
there.” 

“ Elizabeth has been there for three 
days, and I cannot endure her absence 
any longer,” said Celeste, “ so we are 
going to fetch her.” 

“ I hate the prospect of a whole day 
in the country, I declare I do,” observed 
Sir Edward, glancing ruefully at his 
wife. “ It ’s a regular persecution, but 
Lady Courtnay will not go alone, and 
so I must consent to be victimized, and 
dragged away from Paris this charming 
day, when all the world will be in the 
Bois. I declare, my dear fellow,” he 
exclaimed eagerly, as though the idea at 
that moment was most fortunate, — “I 
declare, I wish you would take my place, 
and accompany Lady Courtnay.” 

“ 0 Sir Edward ! ” cried Celeste, 
turning crimson with delight at the 
prospect of a day in the country with 
Claude, “ perhaps M. le Comte has some 
other engagement, and will not find it 
convenient to go.” 

“ There is nothing to prevent my 
going, if it will be agreeable to your 
ladyship,” said Claude, happy and yet 
hesitating. He knew not why, but 
some interior voice seemed to thunder 
in his ears, “ Has man a right to seek 
temptation, in order to prove his moral 
strength % ” 

“ Come, come,” said Sir Edward, 
looking at his watch, “ the train leaves 
in twenty minutes, you have barely 
time to reach the station.” And with- 
out any further remarks he hurried his 
wife into the carriage, saying, “ Bring 
Elizabeth back with you. Remember 
the evening train leaves Poissy at eight. 
Take good care of my wife, monsieur ; 
hon voyaged And he clapped the door to 
briskly after Claude, and turned away, 
touching his hat and smiling his adieus. 

“ I swear, there are few husbands as 
generous and unsuspecting as I am,” he 
said to himself as he sauntered toward 
the Palais Royal, twisting his heavy 
gray mustache with the tips of his 
delicate lavender gloves. “ Lady Court- 
nay’s whim to go to Poissy to-day was 
most inopportune, as I had promised to 
ride with ma belle Julie this afternoon. 


132 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


and the pretty witch would have cried 
her eyes out if I had failed to keep my 
appointment. Ah, M. le Comte ! your 
appearance at that moment saved me 
from a terrible dilemma, and assisted 
me to kill two birds with one stone, and 
I even might say three : for by inviting 
him to go in my place, I first show my 
friendship for him, and my trust in his 
honor ; secondly, my entire confidence in 
my wife ; and thirdly, my devotion to ma 
belle Julie. How very apropos his visit 
was! I’ve no doubt that he ’s in love 
with my wife, it ’s a thing that we hus- 
bands have to submit to, and so it had 
better be some one who is useful in 
return, than a fellow who has n’t a thou- 
sand francs at his command when one 
wants a little favor. Be as happy as you 
can yourself, and give others the same 
chance, is my motto, and an excellent 
one it is. Beside, it is n’t my business 
to look after other people’s morals. We 
are responsible beings and must answer 
all nice little questions for ourselves ; 
and then it ’s absurd to preach what we 
don’t practise, there ’s no dignity in it. 
I don’t take the trouble to avoid my 
own temptations, then why should I 
make myself responsible for others 1 ” 
Just as he had finished this philo- 
sophical soliloquy he found himself at 
Vefour’s ; and entering, he ordered some 
ortolan fricasse, and a demi-honteille of 
chdteau Lafitte, off which he lunched 
with the best possible appetite. 

When Claude and Celeste found 
themselves shut into the carriage alone, 
and on their way to the train for Poissy, 
their first feeling was one of confusion, 
from which their speedy arrival at the 
station happily relieved them. There 
they found the compartment, into which 
they hurried, already occupied by a 
chatty old gentleman, who, much to 
their annoyance, insisted upon address- 
ing them as husband and wife. 

Poor Celeste was ready to cry with 
vexation, while at the same time she 
felt very happy, but a little guilty for 
daring to indulge in such unlawful 
delight, and a little afraid that Eliza- 
beth would blame her, not understand- 
ing the misadventure that had forced 
this welcome and yet unwelcome escort 
upon her. “It is not my fault,” she 
thought ; “ Sir Edward would have him 


accompany me. How good and generous 
he is 1 I am so thankful that he is not 
cross and jealous, like some husbands. It 
is very pleasant to take this little excur- 
sion with Claude, still it is rather awk- 
ward. However, I did nothing to bring 
it about ; therefore my conscience does 
not trouble me, and I may as well have 
one happy day to remember when I am 
old.” With this comfortable conclusion 
she resigned herself, not unwillingly, to 
the circumstance that this fortuitous 
event had thrust upon her. 

As to Claude he was not at all easy. 
We will not say he was unhappy, on the 
contrary, he was at the very threshold 
of the seventh heaven, if such a com- 
parison is not irreverent ; yet he was not 
free from certain little interior pricks, 
that kept him from perfect bliss, and 
detained him at the very entrance of 
the paradise opened before him. He 
had tried to reassure himself with the 
same questionable logic that Celeste 
had used ; but being the stronger and 
more intelligent of the two, it did not 
satisfy him so easily. He had been suf- 
fering a great deal for several days ; in- 
numerable anxieties harassed his wak- 
ing hours, and rendered his dreams 
anything but peaceful. Already he was 
beginning to pay the first instalment of 
the debt he owed to his experience, a 
debt of ingratitude for what it had 
taught him, and a still greater debt of 
self-indulgence. His love for Celeste 
had shorn him of his strength. He 
ought never to have looked upon her 
face again, after the night he accident- 
ally met her at the Hotel de Ventadour ; 
but blinding himself with an intention 
of friendship and assistance, he had now 
reached the very brink of the precipice 
he ftad intended to avoid. He now 
loved her, although he did not dare to 
acknowledge it even to himself, as madly 
and passionately as he had on that 
day when they had parted in the rose- 
garden at Monthelon ; he could longer 
delude himself with sophistry, he loved 
her, and he had not strength to give her 
up. Reason thundered in his ears terri- 
ble warnings ; there were ominous signs 
in the political horizon. La Marquise had 
told him that his liberty and even his 
life were menaced, that his only safety 
lay in his immediate departure from 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


133 


Paris, and he was confident of it him- 
self; he had received more than one 
powerful admonition to that effect, and 
yet he hesitated. He had said to La 
Marquise that it was only his duty that 
inclined him to remain and face the 
consequences, whatever they might be. 
He had tried to say the same to his own 
soul, but there he stood abashed under 
his falsehood, and was forced to confess 
that it was Celeste, his love for her, his 
desire for her presence, that made him 
deaf to the voice of warning. In his 
good work there had been no double 
motive ; he had striven with a single 
heart to do something to better a little 
the condition of his country. His love 
had not narrowed his soul, it had deep- 
ened. and enlarged it, and opened his 
really noble and tender heart to the 
dolorous moaning of those in bondage. 
But now the time had come when to 
continue in that direction was to lose 
the chance of future usefulness, and 
that he had no right to do. Reckless 
courage is as much a sin as is cowardice. 
If he had not been blinded by his pas- 
sion for Celeste, he would have seen 
more clearly into his own situation, and 
withdrawn from danger while there was 
opportunity. 

I do not wish to blame Claude too 
severely, he is my hero and I esteem 
him highly ; neither do I wish to gain 
for him the admiration of my readers 
by false pretences and foolish excuses. 
Therefore I state the case exactly as it 
was, not hesitating to say that he was 
wrong, decidedly wrong, to accompany 
Lady Courtnay, even at her husband’s 
solicitation, and thereby expose himself 
to a temptation that he should have 
avoided, and still more in fault to 
linger in Paris, when he should have 
been anywhere else at that critical 
time. 

When they reached the station at 
Poissy, and escaped from the presence 
of the garrulous old man who had made 
their cheeks burn more than once by 
his suggestive remarks, they felt a little 
more at their ease. 

“ Let us walk to the villa,” said 
Celeste, as she took Claude’s arm on 
the platform. “ It is only a short dis- 
tance and through a most delightful 
‘road.” 


“ If you prefer it, certainly.” And then 
they sauntered almost silently through 
a narrow country lane, tender with the 
tints of spring ; the soft April air blew 
over their faces, sunlight and shadow 
flickered over their path, the green 
trailing branches bent down to kiss 
their heads, and the daisy-studded 
grass caressed their feet that pressed it 
lightly. 

Sometimes Celeste raised her eyes to 
the face of her companion, and sudden- 
ly dropped them, trembling to find that 
his were fixed upon her with unmistak- 
able adoration. Once, almost forgetting 
where she was, she spoke to him and 
called him Claude ; he smiled in return, 
and pressed the little hand that lay on 
his arm. She was vexed at herself for 
having done so, for now she never ad- 
dressed him in any other way than by 
his title, and she feared he might con- 
sider it an advance toward a greater 
familiarity ; so she turned away her 
head and looked resolutely toward the 
forest of St. Germain, and the distant 
silvery thread of the Seine. 

“ This reminds me of the April days 
at Clermont,” said Claude. 

“ Hush,” cried Celeste, “ I am never 
to speak of them. I promised Elizabeth 
never to speak of the past.” 

“ Then we will speak of the delight- 
ful present. Are you happy this morn- 
ing, Celeste 1 ” 

His voice lingered softly on her name. 
She did not reprove him, but turned 
away her face without replying. Then 
Claude sighed and said, “ I wish such a 
day as this could have no to-morrow. 
If it could but last forever, or end to 
both of us at once.” 

“ The world is very beautiful, Claude, 
and life, in spite of sorrow, has so much 
sweetness in it, I think we should not 
desire to shorten it even one hour.” 

“Do you always think so, dear Ce- 
leste 1 ” 

“Not always, 0, not always ! ” she re- 
plied with a sigh that revealed an abyss 
of sadness that he had not fathomed. 
“ Sometimes I am very wearjq and wish 
it would all end. I don’t think I have 
the strong nature to endure, although I 
strive very hard to be patient and hap- 

py-” 

“ Poor child,” said Claude with ten- 


134 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


der pity, “ God knows how I wish that 
I might bear your burdens.” 

“ My burdens 1 0 Claude, I have no 
burdens,” she returned with an eager- 
ness of denial that did not deceive him. 
“ I am sure every one is so good to me. 
Think of Sir Edward, how kind he is ; 
and dear Elizabeth does so much to 
make me happy. If I am not contented 
with my lot, it is my own fault, my own 
wicked heart is alone to blame.” Then 
she paused and colored, dropping her 
eyes with shame, as though she had re- 
vealed too much. Claude made no re- 
ply, and both fell into a silence which 
they scarce dared to break, fearing lest 
they should encroach upon some inter- 
dicted subject. Their hearts naturally 
turned to the old days, and they longed 
to speak of them, but Celeste remem- 
bered her promise, and Claude respected 
it ; so they said but little more until 
they reached the gate of the villa, where 
Celeste was glad to be, feeling that the 
presence of Elizabeth would relieve her 
from all embarrassment. 

The porter who opened the gate 
looked a little surprised as he recog- 
nized Lady Courtnay. The family 
have all gone to Paris, madame,” he 
said. 

“ Gone to Paris ! ” repeated Celeste, 
confounded. 

“Yes, madame, they went in the 
ten-o’clock train to accompany Madem- 
oiselle Elizabeth, who wished to re- 
turn home.” 

“ And I have come to fetch her,” said 
Celeste. “ It is an annoying contretemps ; 
we have passed her on the road; and 
now all that remains for us to do is to 
turn and follow her.” 

“When does the next train leave 1 ” 
inquired Claude of the porter. 

“0 monsieur, there is not another 
train until eight o’clock this evening.” 

Eight o’clock ! ” exclaimed Celeste. 

“ Eight o’clock,” repeated Claude, 
looking at his watch, “and it is now 
only one ! ” 

“ Seven hours,” said Celeste ; “ what 
shall we dol” 

“0, there is a great deal to see in 
Poissy, madame, while dinner is being 
prepared for you. What hour would 
you like to dine 1 ” 

Celeste looked at Claude, and then 


said to the man, “ Will the family dine 
at home 1 ” 

“ No, madame, they will leave Paris 
about the time the eight-o’clock train 
arrives there.” 

“Well,” said Claude, pleasantly, “we 
must make the best of the misadven- 
ture. If you are not too tired,” turn- 
ing upon Celeste a very happy face, 
“we will walk through the town and 
see the church where St. Louis was bap- 
tized, and the other places of interest, 
and return to dinner at whatever hour 
you like.” 

“ I think it had better be early,” re- 
plied Celeste, with rather a troubled 
face ; “ say four o’clock.” 

“Very well,” said the porter, touch- 
ing his hat as they left him, “ I will 
give the order to the cook, and when 
madame returns she will find eveiy- 
thing in readiness.” 

It is needless to say that the time 
flew swiftly, and before they were aw’are 
of it the hour to dine had already ar- 
rived. When Celeste seated herself at 
the table opposite Claude, and their 
eyes met, both were visibly agitated, 
their position tow^ard each other was so 
trying, and their hearts were so filled 
with old memories and hopes, that this 
simple meal, partaken without the pres- 
ence of a third party, suggested more 
than either could bear quite calmly. 
Dish after dish went aw’^ay . scarce 
tasted. They were both too troubled 
to eat, and the dinner was a mere form 
that they were thankful to have finished. 

“ How calm and quiet it is here ! ” 
said Celeste, as they stood side by side 
at a bow-window that opened on the 
lawn. “ I think I was not created for 
a city life ; I pine for the country al- 
ways.” 

“A life of seclusion and retirement 
brings us into more intimate acquaint- 
ance with our ow'n hearts; we study our- 
selves more and others less. Therefore 
the objection might arise that such a 
continued intercourse with self would 
tend to make one narrow-minded, ego- 
tistical, and intolerant,” replied Claude, 
looking at her earnestly, yet with an 
absorbed and troubled air 

“There are, no doubt, many detri- 
mental influences in a life of entire se- 
clusion, but there are some natures con- 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


135 


stitiited for it and to whom it has a 
peculiar charm. Still I do not advo- 
cate an existence entirely separated from 
the world. I was thinking of the sweet 
family life apart from the consuming 
cares of a great city.” Again she 
paused in confusion; unwittingly she 
had expressed her companion’s thoughts, 
and approached that dangerous ground 
on which it would be madness to tread. 

“Celeste, may I ask you one ques- 
tion r’ cried Claude, suddenly taking 
her hand. “ Are you satisfied with 
your life ? ” 

“ 0 Claude ! how can you ask it 1 ” 
and her eyes filled with tears. 

It was an avowal of all her sorrow, 
all her disappointment, all her hidden 
care and misery, all the anxiety that 
was consuming her. It broke down the 
barriers between them. It opened the 
floodgates of their hearts, and both 
wept passionately together. 

“Tell me all,” cried Claude, “for it 
is only by knowing your true situation 
that I can be of any assistance. to you.” 

“ It may be wrong to tell you,” she 
sobbed, “ it may seem like complaining 
of my good husband, who is not to 
blame. He has been very unsuccessful, 
and has lost all my fortune ; but I do 
not blame him in the least, I only suf- 
fer because we are so helpless, Eliza- 
beth and myself, and the future looks 
so terrible to us. 0 Claude, we so need 
some one to advise us, and we cannot 
bear to trouble poor Sir Edward, he is 
so kind, ^so good to us both ! ” 

Claude did not dispute her belief in 
the goodness of her husband ; he did 
not accuse him ; he did not enlighten 
her ; he only tried to comfort her, and 
to win her entire confidence. Gradu- 
ally he drew from her the whole story 
of their complete ruin, their struggle 
to keep up an appearance of prosperity, 
their annoyances and distresses from the 
importunities of creditors, their sacri- 
fices, and their efforts to hide the worst 
from the unprincipled man who had 
robbed them. 

During this pitiful recital, Claude’s 
cheeks burned, and his heart beat al- 
most to suffocation. He looked at the 
frail, lovely woman before him, young 
still, and so unsuspecting, so innocent 
and gentle. “My God!” he thought, I 


“ how terrible will be her fate, bound 
to that miserable man, who will drag 
her down with him, either to entire ruin 
or a premature grave ! And she belongs 
to me ; by every holy right she is mine. 
I will save her if she will be saved. It 
is my duty to save her. It is my sacred 
duty to rescue her from a worse fiite.” 
His passion and pity overwhelmed him, 
blinded and bewildered him ; he felt for 
the time as though this adored woman, 
this idolized being, hung suspended 
over the very flames of perdition, and 
that it was his privilege, his duty to 
save her. He forgot all else beside, and 
clasping her hands in his, he implored 
her with the most passionate tones, the 
most forcible language, to abandon this 
man who had ruined her, who was 
unworthy of her love, who had no 
moral right to her, to fly with him to 
some secluded place, where alone and 
happy with each other they might re- 
trieve the past by a blissful future. He 
went on with an eager impetuosity, 
impelled by his love, his despair, his 
fear, like one who stakes all on a last 
throw, w'ho, if he loses, loses all ; he 
felt it, he understood it, and yet he 
dared to take, in this presumptuous 
manner, his fate into his own hands. 

At first Celeste did not understand 
his full meaning ; but when she did 
she sprang away from the clasp of his 
hands, and stood looking at him in wild- 
eyed terror. At length she found voice 
and cried out in tones of such anguish 
that he never forgot them, “ 0 Claude, 
Claude ! are you mad that you speak 
so to me who have almost worshipped 
you 1 ” There was a depth of reproach 
in this that wrung his heart ; he re- 
membered how he had once said, “She 
shall never have cause to reproach 
me.” “ Me who have so reverenced you 
and trusted you. It is not your own 
noble nature that speaks ; you are in- 
sane, you know not what you say, there- 
fore I forgive you, as I hope God will.” 
And with a look of deep compassion 
and sorrow, she turned to leave him. 

“ Listen, for the love of Heaven, listen 
to me for but a moment ! ” he cried, 
springing before her, and clasping his 
hands in frenzied supplication. “0 
Celeste, have pity on me, I am mad, 
I am indeed mad; I love you, I adore 


136 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


you, and I cannot, be separated from you 
again ; I will strive to be calm, se.e, I 
am already calmer. 0 Celeste, my an- 
gel, do not leave me !” And, overcome by 
his emotion, he covered his face with 
his hands and burst into tears. 

She drew near him, almost terrified 
by his violent weeping, yet her face 
was calm and solemn, and her voice 
was full of tenderness as she said, 
“ Dear Claude, control yourself for my 
sake, think how you alarm me ; I 
suffer, I suffer deeply for you, and I 
suffer for myself, as I shall do in all 
the future. I shall never again be at 
peace. I have heard words from you 
that will haunt me always. 0 my 
darling Elizabeth ! 0 my dear good hus- 
band ! I can never look into your kind 
faces again without dreadful shame and 
remorse.” 

“ Forgive me, Celeste, forgive me,” 
he cried in broken tones, while he 
struggled to regain his composure. “ I 
am more than guilty, and I deserve to 
be crushed by your indignation and 
contempt. I deserve neither pity nor 
mercy from you, and yet I implore 
both. Come near me, do not stand 
trembling as though you feared me. 
God knows I would not harm one hair 
of your precious head. Come near me.” 
And, taking her hand, he drew her to 
the embrasure of the window. 

The sun was gliding down to the 
west, throwing long shadows of the 
poplars across the lawn. The silence 
around them was only broken by the 
gentle twitter of the birds building 
their nests among the branches of an 
elm, and the soft soughing of the wind 
that blew over their feverish fiices, and 
rustled the ciirtains that floated in and 
out like white wings of peace. 

They looked for a few moments in 
silence upon the placid scene, and then 
Claude, drawing away from his com- 
panion, bent his head upon his hand, 
striving to calm the tempest that raged 
within ; while Celeste prayed silently 
that God would give them both strength 
to conquer their suffering hearts. Thus 
they stood, these two poor souls, ar- 
rested on the very threshold of happi- 
ness by a solemn interior voice that 
neither dared to disobey. Loving each 
other to adoration, longing to unite 


their lives, their destinies, their sor- 
rows and joys, and yet not daring to 
cross that line of demarcation that God 
had placed between them. 

At length Celeste reached out her 
hand across the open window, and laid 
it gently on the bowed head of Claude. 
He looked up, his face was ghastly 
white, and his lips were trembling with 
ill-suppressed emotion. “ Go,” she said, 
— “ go, dear Claude, and leave me alone 
to think. Something tells me that after 
this I should never return to Sir Edward 
again. I must go and hide myself 
somewhere. I cannot deceive Elizabeth, 
neither can I deceive him ; for now I 
know I do not love him, that I never 
loved him, that it is you, and only 
you, I love, and therefore I cannot see 
him again.” 

“ 0 my blessed angel ! ” cried Claude, 
beside himself at the words, which he 
had only half understood, “ may God 
forget me if I ever cause you a sor- 
row ! ” 

“ Leave me,” she said gently, — “leave 
me for one hour to decide on my future 
course ; then come to me, and I will 
tell you my determination.” 

Claude pressed her hands to his lips. 
The white curtains waved over them 
like the wings of peace ; a slanting 
sunbeam touched their clasped hands 
and bowed heads with a loving bene- 
diction. Then Claude went out through 
the open window, into the shadow of 
the poplars alone, and Celeste stood 
gazing after him, until a winding path 
hid him from her sight. 

Alas for them, through what shadow 
shall they pass before the sunlight shaU 
touch them again ! 

For an hour Claude paced rapidly 
the long avenues of the park in a terri- 
ble state of agitation. In vain he tried 
to control himself by calling to his 
assistance some of the powerful argu- 
ments that had saved him before. 
But he could not reason ; he could not 
lift his heart in calm, immovable trust 
to Him who hears us Avhen we cry. He 
desired to be saved from this fearful 
conflict ; he desired to do right ; and 
yet, withal, he said, “ I will not give 
her up, I will not give her up.” There- 
fore Christ turned away his face, and 
left him alone in his struggle. 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


137 


It is not difficult to imagine that 
such a soul must suffer intense torture 
before it can succumb to an ignoble 
deed, and that afterward the remorse 
must be a devouring agony. Claude 
had endured much ; he had been 
through fearful mental conflicts; but 
such a one as this had never torn and 
racked all his being with a thousand 
keen pains ; he had never before been 
so utterly overpowered, so completely 
defeated. The soft wings of night 
fanned his forehead, the dew fell like a 
balm upon the thirsty, fainting flowers, 
the twitter of the birds died away into 
the murmuring of their leafy nests, and 
a profound silence reigned around him. 
He threw himself prostrate on the 
ground, and burying his face in the 
cool, damp moss, tried to think, to 
reason, to arrange his plans ; but 
there was no order, no rational inten- 
tions, no fixed purpose save one ; and 
that was to separate Celeste from her 
present misery, and to bind her to him- 
self forever. A still, deep voice seemed 
to say, “ Renounce her, give her up 
forever. Go to her in noble penitence, 
and tell her that your path is made 
clear, and that it does not lie with hers. 
Leave her, and go back to your duties, 
your old, calm life, and forget, in pa- 
tient labor, your unworthy passion.” 

“No, no,” he cried, springing to his 
feet and turning toward the house, — 
“ no, I will not give her up, though 
the heavens should crush me.” The 
hour had passed ; he reached the win- 
dow where he had parted from Celeste ; 
the room was empty, she was gone. 
He looked around bewildered. The 
wind still waved the white curtains in 
and out. A faint light from a crystal 
globe illuminated a table, on which 
lay some writing-materials, and among 
them he saw a note addressed to him- 
self. He tore it open. It was stained 
and blotted with tears. 

“ I fly from you, Claude, because I fear 
you, and I fear myself still more. I go 
to my kind husband, my noble Elizabeth, 
to confess all. And then — and then — 
I shall leave the future to the mercy of 
God. In this moment the purest, the 
sweetest, the most tender feelings are 
])laced in strong contrast to the unwor- 


thy, the unholy, the ignoble. And I ask 
myself what is true and what is false ; 
and straightway a divine finger writes 
before me in letters of fire, ‘ Thy duty at 
any cost. Let not the heart’s wild pas- 
sion, the unrestrained love, darken the 
clear, pure light of reason. Let not the 
nature desiring to grow up to the radiant 
sun of holiness turn downward to the 
clay of which it is fashioned, forget- 
ting its origin in its base grovelling. 
Great and noble souls sacrifice passion 
and desire to virtue and purity ; and he 
who conquereth himself is worthy of a 
martyr’s crown. The joys of the heart 
are sweet, and love turneth all things 
to pleasure ; but remorse and regret fol- 
low fast upon gratification. Passion 
is destitute of tenderness. Love be- 
getteth passion ; but alas ! passion de- 
stroyeth love.’ I cannot disregard the 
solemn monition of this holy teacher. 
My great love for you sinks into insig- 
nificance beside the importance of my 
duty. Therefore I fly from you forever. 
I do not reproach you ; I do not blame 
you. I thank God that he has given 
me strength to save us both from sin. 
When you become calmer, when reason, 
when truth asserts itself, you will see 
with me, that though our hearts bleed 
to death, this parting is necessary, 
absolutely necessary. I would have 
adored you as a friend, a brother ; but 
that cannot be. We have loved once, 
we shall love always, and we cannot be 
friends ; therefore we must be strangers. 
I know you will respect my decision, 
and will never strive to change it. 
Farewell. God bless you, and help you 
to forget how we have suffered. 

“ Celeste.” 

When Claude had read these lines he 
stood for a few moments like one stupe- 
fied by a sudden blow. Then he pressed 
his hand to his head, sighed heavily and 
sank almost unconscious into the chair 
where Celeste had sat to write these 
truthful but crushing words. His fever- 
ish passion was calmed and cooled sud- 
denly and completely ; he felt as though 
she were lying dead before him, stricken 
lifeless by his hand. The profound 
silence tortured him; the regular waving 
of the white curtains in the wind seemed 
like spectral forms ; the incessant com- 


138 


A CEOWN FEOM THE SPEAE. 


plaints of his conscience affrighted him ; 
inaction and repose were unendurable, 
and he arose and plunged again into the 
darkness. A half-hour after he ap- 
peared at the lodge, and muttering some 
scarcely intelligible excuse for being so 
late, he asked if Lady Courtnay had 
gone. 

“ Yes, monsieur, she left more than 
an hour ago ; one of the servants walked 
with her to the station.” 

Claude looked at his watch, it was 
nearly nine o’clock ; Celeste was already 
far on her way to Paris. “ When will 
the next train leave ? ” 

“ At eleven o’clock, monsieur.” 

Claude thanked the servant and 
turned away mechanically, scarce know- 
ing, scarce caring, where he went. 

“ Another contretemps,^^ thought the 
porter as he closed the gate after him. 

PAET SEVENTH. 

“ STERNITUR INFELIX ALIENO VULNERE.” 

When Claude reached Paris, some- 
where about midnight, he was really ill 
from fatigue and agitation. He had 
been through a kind of special suffering 
that left nothing for consolation. He 
had been, as it were, intoxicated by his 
emotions, and had acted in the most 
insane manner, destroying and annul- 
ling all the laws of reason, which he 
had constructed for his own security 
out of his past experience. By his 
importunate desire to rescue Celeste 
from what he thought to be misery, 
but what was in reality duty, he had 
in one rash moment overthrown the 
wall which he had erected for her 
safety, and thereby left her defenceless. 
Now he knew that they were indeed 
parted forever, and that he had de- 
stroyed his only chance of aiding her; 
there was no longer any intention of 
friendship to fall back upon. He had 
tried that specious project, and had 
proved it to be a failure. He had in- 
tended to do so much for her, but his 
own folly had prevented him from 
doing anything. These were the 
thoughts that made his remorse un- 
endurable, and added to his sorrow for 


her loss a thousand poignant regrets 
for his own weakness and indiscretion. 

When Claude entered his room in 
the Eue St. Eoch, he found Tristan 
waiting for him, pale and weary with 
watching and anxiety ; for his absence 
during the whole day, without any ex- 
planation, had alarmed him terribly. 
When the faithful servant raised his 
eyes, and looked upon the troubled face 
of his master, he knew something un- 
usual had occurred. And when Claude 
threw himself, overcome by his feelings, 
upon the faithful heart that never 
failed him, Tristan understood that he 
had received another heavy blow, and 
he tried to comfort him in' the best way 
he could. Then there followed two or 
three days of illness ; of fever, delirium, 
moaning, and tossing, when some of the 
old scenes after his flight from Cler- 
mont were reacted, and Tristan’s failing 
strength was tested to the uttermost. 
However, the frenzy soon exhausted 
itself ; it was not long or serious. On 
the fourth day after that siinbright 
morning when he and Celeste walked 
through the flowers and light into 
shadow, he arose, pale and weak, but 
calm ; and, dressing himself, he sent 
Tristan for a carriage, and drove to the 
Eue Castiglione, for he had determined 
to see Celeste again, but once again. 
He felt that he could not endure life 
without hearing from her lips that 
she forgave him, and that she was well 
and free from any new anxiety. Then 
he intended to leave Paris, and, return- 
ing to Sarzeau, endeavor there to reunite 
again the broken threads of his life ; 
to take up the burden anew, and go on 
patiently with his humble duties. For 
the last two months he had been happy, 
— too happy, as he had learned A^om 
this last experience. He had been 
dwelling in paradise ; and now he was 
driven out, and the gates were closed 
upon him forever. It was not so much 
the pain of his banishment as it was 
the thought that he had brought it 
upon himself. 

I remember once standing on the 
roof of the Cathedral of Milan, just as 
the sun sank below the Alps, throw- 
ing a last beam of light over the 
brow of that wonderful statue by Mi- 
chael Angelo of Adam after his expul- 


A CROWN FROM, THE SPEAR. 


139 


sion from Eden. Looking at this statue, 
I was confused by the contradictory 
expression of the face. It is true there 
was much of regret in it ; a sad, calm 
longing for his Eden ; a desire for some- 
thing he had left behind ; but withal, a 
placid satisfaction, a resignation, a con- 
tentment, most remarkable in one who 
had lost so much. I, who then stood, with 
bleeding heart and rebellious soul, on 
the outer threshold of my Eden, could 
not understand this patient acqui- 
escence ; and feeling that the great 
master was at fault in his conception, 
I said, “ It cannot be after his expul- 
sion, for his face is not even sorrow- 
ful.” 

“ You forget,” replied my companion, 
“ that he was not driven out alone.” 

Poor Claude had not even Adam’s 
consolation to apply to his regretful 
soul, for he had not only brought his ex- 
pulsion upon himself, but he had been 
expelled alone ; and that perhaps was 
the bitterest thought of all, that hence- 
forth he must be entirely separated 
from his idol. When he reached the 
Rue Castiglione, the first thing that 
attracted his notice was a card attached 
to the porte cochere of Sir Edward’s 
house, bearing the suggestive words, 
A louer, le premier Hage. 

“ The family have gone, monsieur,” 
said the old woman who sat knitting in 
the door. 

“ Gone ! where 1 ” 

“ Heaven only knows. They went 
away yesterday, bag and baggage, and 
the apartment is to let.” 

“ Did they leave no address % ” 

“ No, monsieur, not with me. I asked 
Mademoiselle where they were going, 
and she said she did not know. Poor 
thing, she is an angel, and Madame too, 
for that matter. 0 monsieur, there are 
many strange things in this world. It 
’s not me nor you that they did not 
wish to know where they were going, 
but the duns, the creditors of milord, 
who made their lives wretched ! Poor 
young things ! Heaven bless them 
wherever they are ! ” 

^ Claude made no reply, but his heart 
echoed the old woman’s wish, as he 
turned away sick with disappointment. 

When he reached his room again he 
threw himself into a chair like one who 


has no further ^im in life, saying in a 
weary, dejected voice, “ They have gone, 
Tristan, and God only knows to what 
fate.” In the evening the thought 
occurred to him that La Marquise, be- 
ing intimate with Sir Edward, might 
know something of their whereabouts. 
“ I wdll go directly, Tristan. Help me 
to dress. I will not be late, that I may 
see her alone.” While dressing he 
thought of the night when Philip had 
come to him full of life and happiness, 
to take him for the first time to La Mar- 
quise. Toward what sad results he had 
conducted him. Poor Philip, now far 
from him, was tasting of the bitter cup 
that he had long ago drunk to the 
dregs, and which he must drink again, 
replenished in a measure by his own 
hand. 

When Claude entered the antecham- 
ber at the Hotel Ventadour it was quite 
early, and there were no signs of other 
visitors. 

“ Does Madame receive this even- 
ing 1 ” said a footman to another ser- 
vant, as Claude gave him his card. 

“No,” replied the man, turning his 
back and walking to the farther side of 
the room. 

Quel impertinent!^' muttered the 
footman, looking after him curiously. 
And then turning to Claude, he said, 
politely, “ Madame does not receive this 
evening, M. le Comte.” 

“ Take my card to her at once,” said 
Claude in a tone that admitted of no 
dispute, “ and say to her that she will 
do me a great favor if she will receive 
me.” 

In a moment the footman returned, 
and, throwing open the door of the 
scarlet room, conducted Claude into the 
presence of his mistress, saying with an 
imposing air, “M. le Comte de Cler- 
mont, madame.” 

La Marquise stood in the centre of 
the room, under the great golden chan- 
delier, dressed in a sort of demi-toilet 
of white cashmere heavily embroidered 
with black. There was something fu- 
nereal and solemn in her appearance 
that chilled Claude as his eyes fell upon 
her ; but when she came forward with a 
warm smile trembling on her lip and a 
sudden flush of pink upon her delicate 
cheek, she seemed transformed into 


140 


A CROWK FROM THE SPEAR. 


something singularly beautiful and gra- 
cious. 

“To what accident do I owe this 
pleasure]” she said, holding out her 
hand in eager welcome. “ 0 M. le 
Comte, I am so glad to see you safe and 
well. I feared so many terrible things 
for 3 ^ou. You are welcome, most wel- 
come.” 

“ And 3 ^ou are kind, most kind,” re- 
plied Claude with some warmth, for her 
earnest, almost tender greeting touched 
his suffering heart like a balm. 

“ Will you come into my houdoir f It 
is more cosey for a tete-d-tUe^ and beside 
I am such an invalid that I rarely leave 
it now.” And she raised the curtain as 
she spoke, and entered the fair, calm 
retreat, that revealed nothing of the 
terrible tempests it had so often wit- 
nessed. 

Claude follo'wed her, and as she seated 
herself on the sofa, he noticed her air of 
languor and weakness, how thin she 
had become since the last time he had 
seen her, and how transparently white 
was her cheek; there was something 
ethereal in the pure lines of her face, 
the hollow intense e^^es, and the masses 
of silvery hair. 

“ You are indeed ill,” he said gently. 
“ What are you suffering from ] ” 

“ The phj'sicians do not know. I am 
dying of a disease that baffles their skill 
of detection,” she replied, with a dim 
smile and a strange quivering of the lips. 

“ 0 madame, you grieve me. So 
young, so beautiful, and so happy, is it 
possible that nothing can be done to 
save you]” 

“Nothing,” she replied calml}’-; “I 
know my fate and I am contented. 0 
monsieur, there are some who exhaust 
life early, they live with such intensity 
that they consume themselves ! Unfor- 
tunately I was born with such a nature. 
I was touched with a fever that has 
urged me on to the most enervating 
extremes, and now at the time when 
I should be happy and hopeful, with a 
long life before me, I am looking im- 
patiently for the end.” 

“Pardon me,” said Claude, gently; 
“is there not still some remedy] Is 
it right to allow the life that God has 
given to slip quietly away from us, 
without making any effort to retain it ] 


And are wc not guilty if we accuse 
nature, when in reality it is our own 
self-indulgence that has ruined us]” 

“ If there is any aim in living, if we 
can benefit or render happy those around 
us, if by penance and tears we can atone 
for sin, and make the soul more pure 
and worthy of its eternal inheritance, 
then, perhaps, we should seek to extend 
to the utmost limits the frail thread of 
existence ; but if, on the contrary’-, life 
has nothing more to give us, if we know 
that we have absolutely lost every 
chance of making ourselves happy or 
others better, and if we have exhausted 
our tears and penances, should we still 
desire to live ] ” 

“We should ; there is no extremity 
so great that we should turn from it 
to death for a refuge,” replied Claude, 
solemnly. 

“ I do not complain. I do not desire 
to hasten the end, but when it arrives 
it will be welcome. Neither do I 
reproach God that he has not given me 
happiness. I was not created to possess 
it. I should have abused it, and become 
more selfish, intolerant, and arrogant. 
If one should live to say, ‘ I have arrived 
at the plenitude of bliss. I have tasted 
the ineffable, the divine. I have consum- 
mated the extreme of hope, aspiration, 
and desire, and there is no more of joy 
to experience,’ would it not be only at 
the sacrifice of his life ] for such a day 
could have no end. It must be the 
union of mortality and immortality, the 
first delicious draught from the fount 
of eternal beatification. Therefore I do 
not wish to be old. I desire to live 
with all the intensity and emotion pos- 
sible ; and when all is finished, I would 
feel vividly the transport and ravish- 
ment, the ecstasy of immortal happi- 
ness.” 

Claude looked at her with surprise 
and pity. So young and so beautiful, 
to speak thus of a life too early exhaust- 
ed. What had been the sorrow and 
disappointment that had blighted her 
existence ] What poisonous worm had 
crept into the heart of this fair flower, 
withering it and killing it so early ]% 
His heart, tender from the smart of his 
own sorrow, was full of commiseration 
for her ; he longed to comfort her, and 
yet he knew not what to say. When 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


141 


she had finished speaking her face had 
fallen into her hands, and now he saw a 
tear trickle slowly from between her 
fingers and fall into her lap. She was 
weeping silently. The sight was more 
than he could endure ; he arose and 
paced the floor rapidly, scarce knowing 
whether to rush from her presence, or 
whether to throw himself on his knees 
before her and strive to comfort her 
with gentle words and tender caresses. 

When Claude left his seat by her 
side, the hands of La Marquise fell 
heavily ; with an impatient gesture she 
dashed away the tears that trembled on 
her lashes. “ Mon Dieu ! ” she thought, 
“ where is my pride, to weep in the 
presence of this cold, stern man, who 
has neither pity nor love for me 1 0, 

how he will despise me for my weak- 
ness ! ” Then with an effort she said 
calmly, “ Pardon me, M. le Comte, I 
am very nervous and foolish this even- 
ing. It is only w'hen I cannot control 
my emotion that I feel how my illness 
has gained upon me.” 

In a moment Claude was at her side, 
and had her thin, white hands in his. 
“ 0 madame,” he said, looking at her 
with the tenderest pity, “ if you could 
but see into my heart, you would know 
how deep, how sincere is my interest 
for you. Can I help you 1 can I do 
aught to render you happier ! Command 
me as you would a brother.” 

La Marquise drew away her hands 
from his grasp, and leaning back on her 
sofa she looked into his earnest, noble 
face with an expression so intense, so 
inquiring, so full of devotion, that it 
was like a revelation to Claude. The hot 
blood rushed to his head, a shadow 
seemed to gather before his eyes, and 
from that shadow looked the white, 
passionate face of Aimee, as he had last 
seen* her before she disappeared forever. 
And when La Marquise spoke, her voice 
sounded to him like a sad song of child- 
hood brought suddenly back to memory 
after a long lapse of years. 

“ M. le Comte,” she said, in an even, 
calm voice, tender with a monotone of 
sorrow and regret, “ your kind profes- 
sions of interest come too late, nothing 
can alleviate my suffering ; but if 
anything earthly could cure me, your 
friendship and brotherly affection would. 


I have reverenced your character, I 
have admired your noble sentiments, 
your pure life of sacrifice, and your 
efforts for the good of others, and I 
have long desired to win your esteem. 
Once it might have saved me, but now 
it is too late. There are wounds that 
friendship cannot heal, still it may 
soothe them. Let me do something 
for you ; in that way you may grant me 
a reprieve, you may give me respite 
from an anxiety that is devouring me. 
Permit me to use what power I possess 
with the members of the government 
in your behalf. You have so far disre- 
garded my warnings, perhaps you have 
not thought yourself in sufficient danger 
to warrant them. But I have not exag- 
gerated ; your case is most critical. I 
implore you to give me some guaranty 
that you will leave Paris, and retire 
from all your political associates ; and 
that you will neither use your pen nor 
your influence against the present ad- 
ministration. In that case it may not 
be too late to save you.” 

“ I have already decided to leave 
Paris,” replied Claude, touched to the 
heart by her earnest pleading, “ but I 
cannot promise all you ask. I suffer to 
refuse you, still I must be true to my 
principles at any cost. I must support 
my opinions, even at the sacrifice of my 
life, if it should be necessary. As long 
as I am tortured by the wrongs and 
woes of humanity, I must do something 
in their behalf. I cannot be intimidated 
by the despotism of a government that 
would crush the truth.” 

“Then I can do nothing!” said La 
Marquise, in a despairing voice. 

“Yes, madame, you can do much; 
you can lend your support to our cause ; 
you can encourage us to continue strong 
and faithful, during the struggle that 
all lovers of liberty must soon engage 
in. Our nation sleeps in security over 
a volcanic fire that will soon burst forth 
with terrible fury and devastation ; then 
we shall need true hearts and coura- 
geous souls to resist the devouring 
flood.” 

“Ah that I might do something,” 
cried La Marquise, while a sudden flash 
of enthusiasm illuminated her face with 
a wonderful beauty ; then it faded away, 
and a look of profound dejection sue- 


142 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


ceedecl it. “ No, no, it is too late now. 
Once my soul was full of ardor, once I 
longed to be a heroine, but it was some 
time ago, before this feebleness came 
upon me. Still I have strength to do 
something for you, but you will not 
permit me. 0, why will you deny me 
the pleasure, the consolation, of trying 
to serve you 1 ” 

“You can indeed serve me if you 
desire to, but in another way, by assist- 
ing another for me,” cried Claude 
eagerly, as he thought of Celeste and 
her need of a friend. 

“ Tell me how, and I pledge you my 
word to devote myself to your wish- 
es.” 

Then Claude opened his heart to her, 
and told her of his former love for 
Celeste, of his present interest in her 
unhappy fate, and of his anxiety to 
discover her retreat, that he might be 
able to lighten the burden of her life. 
The propriety of employing a third 
person had never before occurred to 
him ; now, in thinking of it, it seemed 
feasible and natural that a woman in 
the position of La Marquise, with 
wealth and leisure at her command, 
could do so much to assist these two 
poor women, without their suspecting 
the real benefactor, that he at once 
told her of his plan to purchase Mon- 
thelon, and settle it upon Celeste, there- 
by placing her and Elizabeth beyond the 
chance of necessity. She listened to 
him attentively, though with increased 
pallor and sudden spasms of pain, that 
turned her quivering lips white ; and 
when he had told her all, she said, 
“ You can depend upon me. I will do 
all I possibly can for Lady Courtnay. 
I shall learn where they are from Sir 
Edward, who, I am confident, will not 
remain away long. Rest in peace ; while 
I live she shall not need a friend.” 

Claude poured out a torrent of thanks 
from the overflowing gratitude of his 
heart, which did not seem to render 
La ISIarquise any happier. On the con- 
trary, her face expressed the most poig- 
nant suffering, as she listened to him, 
and her voice had a ring of deep an- 
guish, as she cried out, “ Pray, pray, do 
not thank me.” 

When, after some further conversa- 
tion, Claude arose to leave. La Mar- 


quise said, looking at him anxiously 
“ Do you carry arms, M. le Comte 1 ” 

“No, I do not,” replied Claude, with 
a smile at the strange question, “i 
have never thought it necessary for a 
gentleman to go armed like a highway 
robber.” 

“ How will you defend yourself if 
you are attacked by ruffians T’ 

“ With my good right hand, and if 
that fails me I shall trust in Provi- 
dence. In any case, I will not take 
life.” 

“ May God protect you then,” she 
said solemnly ; “ and if harm comes to 
you, remember that I tried to save 
you.” 

Claude pressed her hand fervently 
to his lips, and thanking her again he 
left her with a lighter heart than when 
he had entered her presence. As he 
turned from the Rue St. Dominique, the 
bell of St. Sulpice was striking mid- 
night. He had been more than three 
hours with La Marquise, and yet the 
time had seemed very short. He could 
not find fiacre, so he walked down the 
Rue Dauphine toward the Pont Neuf, 
thinking of his conversation with the 
strangely interesting woman who seemed 
to feel such an anxiety concerning him. 
He was not vain, and he loved Celeste 
too well to cherish any warmer senti- 
ment for another than that of friend- 
ship ; yet he knew La Marquise enter- 
tained an affection for him as extraordi- 
nary as it was disinterested, and he 
also knew that nothing could make him 
waver in his fidelity to that adored 
being who filled all his thoughts. Still 
he was obliged to confess that this 
wonderful woman fascinated him in a 
remarkable manner. “ She is a mys- 
tery,” he thought ; “ what a generous 
nature, what a noble character, though 
warped and disfigured by pride* and 
vanity ; what exaltation of spirit min- 
gled with morbid fancies and unhealthy 
conceptions ; a sad but beautiful wreck 
of what should have been a perfect 
woman. While I looked at her and 
talked with her I was constantly pos- 
sessed with the thought of one the ex- 
pression of whose face is becoming oblit- 
erated from my memory by time or some 
confusion of resemblance ; for when I 
think of Aimee, La Marquise comes 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


143 


before me ; and when I think of La 
Marquise, the figure of Aimee starts up, 
sad, passionate, and reproachful, as she 
stood in the shadow-haunted twilight, 
so long ago.” So musing, he crossed 
the Pont Neuf to the statue of Henry 
IV. There he paused for a few moments 
to look over the parapet into the Seine, 
w'ith its ceaseless, solemn flow, its in- 
sensible, unpitying progress toward the 
sea, over the tears, the moans of despair, 
the cries of anguish, that are hidden 
and silenced within its relentless bosom. 
Far below, like a procession of giants, 
glided the shadows of the numerous 
piers, sombre and mournful, into 
distance ; while the stars of heaven 
blended mysteriously with the far-off 
lights that marked the winding of the 
river. The damp air blew over his face 
with a sudden chill, a sickening memory 
made the blood curdle in his veins. 
The yellow water, flowing on in the 
flickering glare of the gaslight, whirled 
and eddied over some crimson body 
beneath it. A white face with black 
tangled hair gleamed for a moment out 
of the darkness, and then disappeared. 
It was the body of a poor suicide, 
wrapped in a crimson sha«rl, floating 
down among the shadows of the piers ; 
but it seemed to Claude as though the 
ghastly face of Aimee had looked at 
him reproachfully, from under the 
shadow of the clift' at Clermont. Some- 
thing startled him, and turning his 
head from his absorbed contemplation 
of the river, he saw by his side, almost 
looking over his shoulder, the wild eyes, 
the haggard, never-to-be-forgotten fea- 
tures of Pere Benoit, while at the same 
moment two men, wrapped in dark 
mantles, sprang upon him from behind 
the statue of Henry IV. For an instant 
he was so surprised as to be powerless, 
then he saw that if he hesitated for a 
moment he was lost. So he turned 
SLpiare upon his assailants, and bracing 
himself against the parapet of the 
bridge he dealt an effectual blow 
straight between the eyes of the ruf- 
fian who was endeavoring to pinion his 
arms. He staggered for a moment, then 
fell heavily, and lay as though uncon- 
scious ; while Pere Benoit and the 
other sprang upon their victim, one 
trying to cover his mouth, the other to 


fasten his hands. The struggle was 
short but terrible ; and it might have 
ended fatally for Claude, if the sharp 
report of a pistol and the heavy fall of 
Pere Benoit had not alarmed the other 
ruffian, who turned and fled. Then he 
saw that the first, whom he had sup- 
posed unconscious, had risen to his feet 
and was also flying with the other. It 
was he then who had fired the shot, 
designing it for Claude, but instead it 
had struck his accomplice, and laid him 
helpless at the feet of his intended 
victim. 

The whole scene had been so sudden, 
so short, and so confounding in the result, 
that Claude stood looking at the pros- 
trate man like one bewildered, until the 
hurrying feet of approaching gendarmes, 
whom the report of a pistol had attract- 
ed to the spot, aroused him, and he 
bent over the suffering man and raised 
his head. The full light of the lamp 
fell upon his ghastly face and upon a 
red stream trickling over his hands 
that were clasped on his chest. He 
was conscious, and his wide-open eyes 
were full of anxious intelligence as he 
fixed them upon the face of Claude, say- 
ing in a clear, strong voice, “ Take me 
home, take me at once. I have much 
to say to Madame la Marquise.” 

“Madame la Marquise de VentadourP’ 
inquired Claude, as he beckoned to a 
gendarme hurrying toward him. 

“Yes, I am her servant, Justin, and 
I must see her before I die. It will not 
be directly, but it will be soon.” And he 
struggled to his feet and looked wildly 
around him. 

At that moment two gendarmes had 
arrived upon the scene, and after a hur- 
ried explanation from Claude, one ran 
for a litter to the nearest caserne, while 
the others tried to stop the crimson 
tide that was rapidly exhausting the 
strength of the miserable man. 

As quickly as possible they arrived 
with the litter, and placing their bur- 
den upon it, the bearers turned toward 
the Rue St. Dominique ; while Claude, 
silent and apprehensive, walked by their 
side, thinking of the reality of his dan- 
ger, the clairvoyant warning of La 
Marquise, the relentless hate of this 
mysterious P^re Benoit, who declared 
himself to be a servant of the woman 


144 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


who had tried to save him. What could 
it all mean, and what motive had this 
man for his persecution and enmity ? 


PART EIGHTH. 

SOMETHING MORE OF GENEVIEVE GAUTIER. 

When they reached the chamber of 
the wounded man in the Hotel Venta- 
dour, the servants gathered around 
him with surprised and curious looks. 
Yes, it was Justin, the taciturn, morose 
disagreeable Justin, who, though appar- 
ently the confidential servant of La 
Marquise, was in reality disliked by her 
as much as he was by all the domestics. 
There w’as no doubt as to his identity, 
but there was some as to his honesty 
when they saw that he w^as disguised, 
or perhaps I should say that he was out 
of his disguise, at least to Claude ; for 
his handsome livery and wliite curling- 
wig made him less himself than the 
dress he now wore, the threadbare, dirty, 
blood-stained dress of a priest. But the 
servants of La Marquise had never 
known him as Pere Benoit, so one can 
understand their astonishment when 
they looked upon him in this new char- 
acter. 

“ Ce gar (^011 est un coquin!'''' said 
the footman to whom he had been im- 
pertinent that same evening, and who 
disliked him even more than did the 
others. “ A fine thing, a servant dis- 
guised as a priest, or a priest disguised 
as a servant, I don’t know w-hich, but 
either is bad enough. I always sus- 
pected him for a knave, and no doubt 
that at last he has got his just deserts ; 
but I will bring a doctor nevertheless.” 
So he went out and left the other ser- 
vants to strip off the disguise of the 
wounded man and place him comforta- 
bly in his bed. 

When Claude entered, he learned 
that La Marquise had not yet retired, 
and that she would see him again in her 
boudoir. He found her very much ex- 
cited, and her excitement seemed to 
increase when he recounted to her his 
strange adventure, and entreated her, if 
possible, to throw some light upon a 
.mystery that perplexed him beyond 


expression. La Marquise listened to 
him with the most marked agitation, 
while he also told her briefly of his for- 
mer knowledge of this man as a priest, 
under the patronage of the then Arch- 
deacon, and of his unaccountable enmi- 
ty toward him, without any apparent 
reason ; of his effort to take his life at 
Clermont, and of his attack on the Pont 
Neuf, and then begged her to explain 
to him why it was that he found this 
dangerous man domesticated in her 
household. 

“ What you tell me more than sur- 
prises me,” she cried as she paced the 
floor excitedly, her cheeks crimson and 
her eyes flaming. Every sign of languor 
and weakness had disappeared, and she 
seemed to be struggling to control a 
rising wrath. I cannot conceive what 
reason this man can have to dislike you 
to such an extent as to seek your life. 
It is indeed a mystery to me. AVhen I 
married M. le Marquis, I found him 
among my husband’s servants and fa- 
vored with his confidence. For certain 
reasons which I cannot explain I re- 
tained him in my service after the 
death of Le Marquis. Until now I 
have always found him devoted and 
faithful, though eccentric to such a de- 
gree that I have sometimes thought 
him insane. I can only account for 
this strange occurrence in one way ; he 
is a spy of the government, and a tool 
of the secret police. It was their inten- 
tion to abduct you and imprison you, 
without accusation or trial. Ah, I know 
how the demons carry on their work ! 
You would not have been the first who 
has mysteriously disappeared from the 
world, to drag out years in a prison 
cell. It w-as because of such a fear that 
I warned you. This pure administra- 
tion prefers to dispose of its enemies in 
a cowardly, treacherous manner. But 
if it fails with such means, then it re- 
sorts to others. It arrests noble, truth- 
ful men in broad daylight, denounces 
them as traitors, drags them off to a 
mock trial, condemns them, and plunges 
them into La Roquette for an indefinite 
period. You have escaped this once, 
M. le Comte, but the next time you will 
be less fortunate. Even the death of 
this miserable man, who is evidently 
employed against you, will not save 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


145 


you. Therefore I entreat you to fly, 
to fly at once. To think that one of 
my servants should betray you to 
these ruffians maddens me. Ungrate- 
ful wretch ! dastardly villain ! If he 
escapes death, he will not escape my 
punishment.” 

Claude looked at her, almost alarmed 
at her fury. Her eyes seemed to emit 
sparks of electric light, her teeth were 
pressed into her underlip, and the veins 
stood out like knotted cords on her 
white forehead, while her hands were 
rigidly clenched with a vice-like force. 
“ Calm yourself, I implore you,” he said 
soothingly. “ Do not waste your strength 
and indignation on the miserable man 
who is expiating his sin with suffering 
and death.” 

“Ah, death is too good for such a 
traitor ! I should like to torture him 
with the pains of a thousand deaths ! ” 
she cried with a frenzy of anger, pacing 
the floor, and grinding her teeth as she 
repeated it over and over. 

“ This excitement will kill you,” said 
Claude imploringly, for he was now 
thoroughly distressed and alarmed at 
the tempest the news of the attack had 
raised, and he feared the most injurious 
consequences to one in her delicate 
health. “ He should not have been 
brought here to disturb you. I regret 
it deeply, but he implored so to see you, 
saying he had something important to 
communicate, and it seemed the nearest 
shelter for him.” 

“Something to communicate'? Ah, 
perhaps he will reveal the whole plot. 
The Archbishop of Rouen is at the bot- 
tom of this, I suspect, and I would give 
much to be sure. He did well when he 
wished to be brought here. I will go 
to him directly.” And she turned ex- 
citedly toward the door, where she was 
met by her maid. 

“The doctor wishes to speak with 
you, madame. He has dressed the 
wound of Justin, and he says he cannot 
last until morning. They have sent for 
a notary to take down a deposition he 
wdshes to make. Will you see the doc- 
tor, madame 1” 

“Yes, send him here.” 

A tall, thin man entered, and bowing 
low to La Marquise, he said, “My pa- 
tient is as comfortable as possible, but 
10 


sinking fast. I cannot find the ball, 
although I have probed the wound, 
which is near the carotid artery; an 
eighth of an inch farther, and instant 
death would have been the result, ma- 
dame ; a terrible wound, a mortal 
wound.” 

“ I am glad of it,” said La Marquise, 
in a hard, sharp voice ; “ such a wretch 
deserves to die.” 

“ But, madame, his case is — ” 

“ Never mind his case. I assure you 
I don’t care in the least how much he 
suffers ; I tell you he deserves it. What 
have you to say to me beside giving me 
a synopsis of his case*? I tell jmu I 
don’t want to hear anything about it, 
only that he suffers, that is all.” 

The surgeon looked at her and then 
at Claude, as though he would like to 
ask if Madame la Marquise was insane, 
but dared not ; then he stammered out, 
“ My message, madame, from the dying 
man, is that he wishes to see you and 
M. le Comte de Clermont — I presume 
this is M. le Comte,” bowing to Claude, 

— “ in the presence of a notary, with- 
out other witnesses.” 

“ Very well. You may go.” 

And the doctor bowed himself out, 
thinking as he went, “ A rapid devel- 
opment of insanity, brought on by over- 
excitement, with a febrile tendency to 
the brain.” 

Then La Marquise turned to Claude, 
and holding out her hand she said 
more calmly, “ Come with me ; I shall 
need you to support me, for I have a 
foreboding of something that will wring 
my soul.” 

When they entered the room where 
lay the wounded man, and the gaze of 
La Marquise fell upon his ghastly face, 
his wild eyes, and his clipped gi’ay hair, 

— for all disguises were now thrown 
aside, and he presented almost the same 
appearance as he did on that morning 
when, as an escaped convict, he first 
appeared before Fabien on the tour de 
hurre of Notre Dame, — she uttered a 
sharp cry, and falling heavily into a 
chair at the foot of his bed, she covered 
her face with her hands, as though she 
could not endure the sight. 

A notary sat at a table, with a paper 
spread before him, and a pen in his 
fingers, ready to begin his work. Claude 


146 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


stood near La Marquise, with folded 
arms. The faint flame of the shaded 
lamp threw a circle of light over the 
paper and hands of the notary, and all 
else was in half-shade. A profound 
silence, broken only by the labored 
breathing of the dying, filled the room, 
and rendered the scene solemnly im- 
pressive. 

“I am ready for yoar deposition,” 
said the notary. 

“ I am also ready.” And the hollow 
eyes turned with an intense gaze upon 
the two figures at the foot of the bed, 
while he said in a clear, calm voice, 
unlike a dying man, “ My name is 
Justin Gautier. I was born in Bourg 
Dieu, Departement de ITndre, in the 
year 17 — . My only surviving parent 
died and left me an orphan at twelve 
years of age ; and I was then adopted 
into the family of my uncle, Louis 
Gautier, of Bourg Dieu. He had but 
one child, a daughter, named Ge- 
nevieve Marie.” Claude started, and 
leaned forward with an expression of 
the deepest interest. “ She was two 
years older than myself, and most 
beautiful. I loved her, and she was 
my affianced wife. Her father died 
suddenly from grief at the failure of a 
speculation that ruined him, leaving 
us both without a sou. I left Bourg 
Dieu to seek my fortune, and Genevieve 
went to Paris, where her wonderful 
voice, remarkable grace, and beauty pro- 
cured for her a situation as second 
soprano in the Italian opera. There 
she was persecuted by the attentions 
of the former Comte de Clermont ; but 
being virtuous as well as beautiful, she 
resisted all his advances, until, over- 
come by his passion, he offered her 
marriage. She loved birn; he was a 
noble, rich and handsome, and I was 
but a poor, mean clod, unfit to mate 
with such perfection. Although she 
deserted me for him, God is my witness 
that I never reproached her. I loved 
her too well to stand between her and 
fortune. But from the moment I knew 
she had given her heart to the Comte 
de Clermont, I hated him with an in- 
tense hatred. ,They were married pri- 
vately in St. Etienne, Bourg Dieu, and 
I saw her leave the church as Comtesse 
cde -Clermont. The sight changed my 


very nature. I had been a simple, 
gentle creature until then. Afterward 
I became reckless, and indifferent to 
everything. I fled from France to 
America, not caring where I went or 
how I passed my days. Ten years after 
the marriage of Genevieve Gautier, and 
while I was still in the wilds of Amer- 
ica, I was told that a Frenchman was 
dying in our camp, and as I was a 
fellow-countryman he wished to see me. 
I went to him, and found that he was 
very near eternity, and suffering from 
terrible remorse of conscience, from 
which he could find no relief, as there 
was not a priest within hundreds of 
miles to listen to his confession. After 
talking with him for some time, I drew 
from him the story of his crime. He was 
Andre Renaud, and had been valet and 
confidential servant to M. le Comte de 
Clermont, and was one of the witnesses 
of his marriage with Genevieve Gautier. 
Controlling myself as well as I possibly 
could, I listened to the story of her 
desertion, the unfortunate burning of 
the records at Chateau roux, the death 
of the Cur4 who performed the marriage 
service, the destruction of the church 
record, the death of the other witness, 
and lastly of the bribe offered by the 
Count to this dying man to leave the 
country forever after he had destroyed, 
as he thought, the copies of the certifi- 
cates. I cannot describe my exultation 
when I learned, before he finished his 
confession, that the copies of the cer- 
tificates had not been destroyed as sup- 
posed ; that this vile accomplice had 
hidden them with a number of letters 
in a secret panel that he had discov- 
ered in an old cabinet at Clermont, for 
the purpose of extorting more money 
from his master at some future time. 
Therefore the records were still in ex- 
istence, and he had determined to 
return to France to make use of them, 
when death overtook him and frus- 
trated his plans. Without leading the 
dying man to suspect that I had any 
special interest in his narrative, I drew 
from him all the particulars. And be- 
fore his body was cold, I was on my 
way to the coast, where I intended to 
embark at once for France. When I 
reached Chateauroux, I found the man's 
story of the desertion substantially true. 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


147 


Poor Genevieve, but a wreck of her 
former self, was living in poverty, cared 
for by a faithful maid, who had never 
deserted her. And her son, the lawful 
Comte de Clermont, was a charity- 
scholar in the College of St. Vincent. 
As I said, she was but a wreck. Her 
mind was weakened and her health 
shattered to a fearful degree. Still, 
she recognized me, and with her poor, 
weak arms around my neck, she im- 
plored me to do something for her 
child. When I looked upon the ruin 
of my idol, my beautiful, adored Gene- 
vieve, I took a solemn oath that I 
would be revenged upon the man who 
had wrought this evil. I was deter- 
mined by some means to gain possession 
of these papers, and thereby to expose 
the crime of M. le Comte, and reinstall 
his wife and child. My first plan, that 
I might not be separated from Gene- 
vieve, was to marry the good girl who 
had devoted herself to her mistress so 
unselfishly. Then I removed to Ma- 
launay, which was near enough to 
Clermont for my purpose, and too fiir 
away to create suspicion. It is need- 
less to say how often I tried to gain 
admittance to the chateau of Clermont, 
that I might search the cabinet for the 
papers, nor how often I was unsuccessful, 
for the greatest care was necessary that 
I should not excite suspicion. In the 
midst of my efforts, poor Genevieve died 
without the pain of knowing how unfor- 
tunate I was, for the last few months of 
her life were passed in a gentle insanity, 
in which she believed herself to be liv- 
ing over her days of happiness with the 
false man she still adored. Less than 
two years after her death, M. le Co rate 
de Clermont married again, and brought 
a bride to the chateau. I waited un- 
til a son was born of that union, then I 
thought my time was come to have my 
revenge. I made another daring effort 
to gain access to the old cabinet, but 
failed again, just missing detection, 
which would have ruined all. After 
this ill success I was somewhat discour- 
aged, and thought it better to leave that 
part of the country for a while ; so I re- 
turned to Chateauroux and settled down 
to a peaceable life with my good wife, 
whom I esteemed and loved for her de- 
votion to Genevieve. We were poor, for 


I had earned but little during the time 
I had lived near Clermont, and when I 
became the father of a sweet little girl 
I felt that I must devote myself to some 
serious occupation to provide for her; 
but dearly as I loved her, I was still 
haunted by the desire to fulfil my oath 
to Genevieve, and to be revenged on the 
Count of Clermont. At last I could en- 
dure inaction no longer. I started again 
for Rouen, leaving my wife and child 
at Chateauroux. One night, determined 
to accomplish my design then or never, 
like a thief I broke into the chateau of 
Clermont, and gained access to the room 
where the cabinet stood, and even had 
broken a lock to one of the doors, when 
I was surprised by the servants. I re- 
sisted, but was overpowered, imprisoned, 
tried, and sentenced to the galleys for 
fifteen years. Without a farewell to 
my wife and child, I began my living 
death. For four years I endured it, ex- 
isting on the hope of seeing my child 
again ; it was that hope that kept me 
alive. At the end of that time an oppor- 
tunity offered and I escaped. I went 
back to Chateauroux. My wife had been 
dead for more than a year, my poor 
child was living with people I despised. 
I stole her and fled with her like a 
criminal, determined to go again to 
Rouen and find the son of Genevieve, 
who was then a priest in the college of 
St. Vincent, and, after telling him all I 
knew, to leave him to work out his own 
revenge, while I fled to another country 
with my child. I reached Rouen half 
dead from hunger and weariness, only 
to discover that I was pursued. The 
cathedral was the only place that offered 
a refuge. I entered it, and hoping to 
conceal myself I mounted to the bell 
tower ; but there I was followed by the 
officers, who arrested me and dragged 
me away to another imprisonment more 
dreadful than the first. I left my child 
in the care of a priest whom I found on 
the platform of the tower. His heart was 
filled with pity for me, and he promised 
to protect the unfortunate little crea- 
ture who betrayed her father by point- 
ing out to the officers his hiding-place. 
The agony of being captured and taken 
back to my dreadful prison was nothing 
in comparison with the thought that 
my own child did not love me, nay, that 


148 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


she feared me, hated me, and betrayed 
me.” Here the voice of the snffei'ing 
man took such a tone of sharp anguish, 
that La Marquise trembled and cowered 
like one smitten with sudden fear, and 
Claude groaned heavily, while the notary 
laid down his pen and wiped his eyes as 
if his sight was dim. “ I went back to 
prison hopeless. I no longer resisted 
my fate. I endured the remainder of 
my term in sullen silence. But when I 
found myself free again, hope revived 
wuthin me, and I turned my weary feet 
again toward the spot where I had left 
my child. I arrived one night in Rouen, 
hungry, suffering, and ill, but I did not 
know how or where to find her, for I 
did not even know the name of the 
man with whom I had left her. I felt 
the old desire to see Clermont again. A 
servant in the town told me that the 
Count had been dead for years, and that 
his son lived at Clermont, — his son who 
had usurped the place of the lawful 
heir, the child of Genevieve Gautier. 
Full of the old determination once more, 
I entered the grounds of Clermont. A 
lighted window and the sound of music 
attracted me. I looked in and there I 
saw my child, grown to a lovely maiden, 
dancing like a fairy with bright eyes 
and smiling mouth. My love did not de- 
ceive me, I knew it was my child, my 
Aim6e. 0 my God, how my heart ex- 
ulted to see her so beautiful ! ” 

Have pity on me, have pity on me !” 
cried La Marquise, suddenly falling on 
her knees before the bed, while she ex- 
tended her hands toward the dying man. 
“0, I remember it all ! I remember 
how I treated you with scorn and con- 
tempt.” 

“ Aimee, is it Aim6e ? ” exclaimed 
Claude, looking at her with horror and 
surprise, like one who, if he should see a 
corpse suddenly arise and stand before 
him, would forget all else in the terror 
occasioned by the shock. 

“ Yes, it is Aim4e,” she said, raising 
her face to his ; “ look at me closely and 
you will perhaps see in my changed 
features some traces of Aim4e. Yes La 
Marquise de Ventadour is Aim4e, the 
child that Fabien saved from want and 
suffering. And the convict P^re Be- 
noit and Justin the servant are one and 
the same, and her father, — her father 


whom she betrayed, and whom she 
scorned and insulted when he returned 
from liis long imprisonment, and knelt 
at her feet imploring her pity.” 

“ My child, my child, do not reproach 
yourself, you did not know I was your 
father.” And the dying man stretched 
out one thin hand toward her. He could 
not reach her head, and his extended 
hand fell helpless. La Marquise seized 
it and pressed it to her heart and then 
to her lips, covering it with tears and 
kisses. 

“ No, no, I did not understand it, my 
heart was false to me, I was born to 
curse those who love me. 0 my father, 
but just now I rejoiced in your suffer- 
ing, I wished a thousand tortures to 
come upon you ; forgive me, and bless 
me. Do not remember my wrongs 
against you.” 

“This atones for all. I have not 
deserved this. Is it true, or is it a 
dream, that my child calls me father 'I ” 

“ I implore you not to excite mon- 
sieur,” said the notary with a troubled 
face, “ he has not finished his deposition, 
and his strength is failing fast.” 

“It is true, go on; I will try to 
gather my feeble senses. Aim^e, hold 
my hand. This is what I would say. 
I gained access to Clermont, I searched 
the cabinet, but I found nothing. The 
man had deceived me, or the papers had 
been discovered by another and removed 
from their hiding-place. Come nearer, 
M. le Comte de Clermont, and listen to 
my last words; the words of a dying 
man cannot be false. I have hated 
you, I have plotted against 3 mu wdth 
the son of Genevieve Gautier. We have 
tried to ruin you, because you were the 
son of the man who crushed the sweet- 
est flower that ever bloomed ; her son 
and her lover have tried to avenge her 
wrongs. We have made you suffer, 
we have dishonored you, we have driven 
you from your inheritance, but we have 
failed to remove the stain from the 
name of Genevieve Gautier and her son, 
who is the lawful heir of the title and 
estate of Clermont.” Here his voice 
sank to a whisper, and for a moment 
fell into silence ; then he started up to 
a sitting position, and stretching out 
his hand toward the notary he said in a 
loud, ringing voice, “ In the presence 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


of God, and with the fear of death be- 
fore me, I, Justin Gautier, do declare Fa- 
bien. Archbishop of Rouen, to be the son 
of the former Comte de Clermont, and 
of Genevieve Marie Gautier, his wife.” 
For a moment there was silence in 
the room, only broken by a heavy groan 
fix)m Claude. Then the dying man 
sank back on his pillow with a gurgling 
gasp. “Aim^e, your hand. Remember 
your father hated Claude de Clermont 
and tried to take his life ; let that mem- 
ory make a great gulf between you. 
Think of the cause his father gave me 
to hate his son, and forgive me for that 
hate. Love Fabien, his brother; be 
grateful to him, because he saved me 
from despair. Have I not served you 
well and faithfully all these years 'I 
Have I not watched over you with the 
utmost care? It was I, your poor de- 
spised father, who made you Marquise 
de Ventadour. I discovered you hidden 
in Paris, after your flight from Clermont, 
earning a scanty subsistence as a lace- 
maker. I became a servant to the 
Marquis de Ventadour, that I might 
serve you through Madame la Mar- 
quise. I was sent to find a lace-maker. 
I brought you. I had great influ- 
ence over the feeble old man, and in- 
terested him in you, so that after his 
wife died he offered you marriage. 0 
my child, how many times I longed 
to discover myself to you, and yet 1 
feared to, I feared your scorn and con- 
tempt ! ” 

“Ah, if I had but known you were 
my father ! ” sobbed La Marquise. “ I 
recognized you at once as Pere Benoit, 
but I believed you had not discovered 
me to be Aimee, and therefore I con- 
tinued to treat you as a stranger, al- 
though I felt that you had some pecu- 
liar interest in me. I thought of many 
things, but I knew nothing, so I remained 
silent. 0, how cruel I have been to you, 
when I might have made your life 
peaceful and happy ! ” Then she thought 
cf the wrong and injustice he had done 
Claude, who was innocent of his father’s 
crimes, and a sudden revulsion of feel- 
ing caused her to draw away her hands 
and cry out, “ Why, why have you made 
it so hard for me to forgive you? 
Entreat pardon from him you have so 
wronged before you can hope for mine. 


149 

You are near eternity : pray to God for 
forgiveness and mercy 

But the ear of her father was already 
deaf to her cry ; for before the words 
died on her lips, he stretched out his 
hands toward her, and cried in a voice 
piercing with the agony of death, 
“ Aim^e, Aimee ! ” Then the hands fell, 
a film gathered over the wild eyes, and 
the head rolled helplessly on the pillow. 
A moment after the notary folded his 
paper, saying, “His deposition is fin- 
ished, he is dead.” 

Claude stooped over La Marquise to 
lift her up. She had thrown herself 
upon her father’s body with extended 
arms, her white hair covering him like 
a shroud, while the crimson tide from 
his wound welled forth and stained the 
cold hands that were clenched over his 
heart. 

“ Take Madame away from this dread- 
ful scene,” said the doctor, who had 
been summoned when his skill was no 
longer needed ; “ take her to her room 
where she will be quiet, for her nerves 
are terribly shaken, and sleep is abso- 
lutely necessary.” 

Claude assisted her maid to carry her 
to her room ; there they laid her half 
unconscious upon a sofa, and tried every 
means to soothe her agitation. “Do 
not leave me,” she said more than once 
to Claude, — “ do not leave me until I 
have explained all to you, for I cannot 
rest until I have done so.” More than 
an hour after, when she was a little 
composed and her passionate weeping 
had died into long, heavy sobs, she held 
out her hands to him, and said, “0 
Claude, how I must suffer for all my 
future life, what terrible remorse I 
must feel when I remember my cruelty 
to my unhappy father ! My heart is 
torn with different emotions. I love him 
and pity him when I think of his sor- 
row, and his undying affection for me, 
and I hate and despise him when I 
remember how he has wronged you. 
0, what a burden of pain and regret I 
must endure while life lasts ! And you, 
do you not despise me for all my decep- 
tion and folly ? When I left Clermont 
I was insane with passion, and I wished 
to make you suffer. I rushed madly 
down the path on the edge of the preci- 
pice and hid among the rocks until 


150 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


it was quite dark ; then I liumed away 
to St. Ouen like a culprit, where I took 
the night train for Paris. I threw my 
scarf into the river, thinking if it was 
found you would believe me drowned 
and so accuse yourself always of having 
caused my death. For more than a 
year I remained in Paris undiscovered, 
during which time I heard nothing 
from Clermont. I supposed you had 
married Celeste, and was living happily 
on your estate.’' 

Claude sighed, and said, “ If you had 
listened to me that day when I en- 
treated you to helj) me, all would have 
been different." 

“ Do not reproach me. I know how 
I have ruined your life. I am bitterly 
conscious of my ingratitude to one who 
heaped favors upon me. I have stung 
the hand that caressed me. I once 
thought I loved you too well to cause 
you suffering. I know now that I loved 
myself too well to make you happy. 
But, Claude, I am enduring a terrible 
expiation for my follies. If we sow 
tares we shall reap the same ; and my 
harvest is abundant. It is only lately 
that I learned of your being accused of 
causing my death, and of the dreadful 
scene at Clermont ; or, believe me when 
I say it, I should have made any 
sacrifice to have proved you innocent. 
Until now the Aim^e of Clermont has 
been dead to the world ; but she would 
have arisen to life to vindicate you, if 
she had not indulged in another hope 
as weak as it was delusive. When I 
learned from the Archbishop, who dis- 
covered me through my unhappy father, 
that Celeste was married and you were 
still free, I believed if you could see 
me at the zenith of my triumph, hon- 
ored and courted by all, you might come 
to return my fatal affection, which has 
never changed nor diminished with time 
and absence.” 

“ 0 Aimee, how we have tormented 
each other! Our very love seems to 
have turned to evil for us,” said Claude, 
sadly. 

“ You cannot understand all the dis- 
tress and weariness of a life of continual 
deception, — the excitement and devour- 
ing anxiety, the fear and expectation of 
discovery. I adopted every possible 
means to change my appearance. I 


sacrificed my hair. Do you not remem- 
ber my beautiful hair, Claude 1 I wept 
bitterly when I found it bleached white ; 
but it transformed me. I scarce recog- 
nized myself. The first time I saw you 
was a moment of intense agony ; for I 
feared you would discover in La Mar- 
quise the lost Aim4e. You were visibly 
agitated, almost overcome, by the strange 
impression I made upon you, but you 
were not convinced.” 

‘‘It seemed as though the spirit of 
Aim^e had risen before me ; for you 
startled me by your striking resem- 
blance to her, which I then believed 
to be only accidental,” said Claude in 
explanation of the violent emotion he 
had betrayed on that memorable night, 
when he had allowed himself to be 
conducted reluctantly toward his des- 
tiny. 

“ I soon discovered that your love for 
CMeste had not changed, that you still 
adored her. And then I knew my case 
was hopeless ; but I tried to save you. 
I was sincere in my intention for your 
good ; without selfish interest, or hope 
of reward from you, I used all my 
influence with those in power on your 
behalf. It is to that you owe your 
liberty until to-night ; but I can do no 
more. Dear Claude, if you wish to 
spare me still more bitter anguish, leave 
Paris at once.” 

“ I will,” he said, rising ; “ before the 
day is over I shall be on my way to 
Sarzeau. But my dear Aimde, my dear 
sister, my heart aches to leave you 
alone in your sorrow. I suffer to think 
I can do nothing for you.” 

“ To know you safe will render me 
happier. You forgive me, you do not 
despise me, henceforth there can be 
nothing but kindness between us ; 
therefore I have nothing to complain of. 
After this tempest is over we shall meet 
in a more placid haven. Until then 
adieu, dear Claude. May God protect 
you and make you to prosper in every 
undertaking.” 

“ When shall we meet again, Aim4e, 
and how 'I ” said Claude, looking at her 
with tearful eyes. 

“ The day is breaking,” and she 
pointed to the window through which 
struggled the pale dawn ; “ let it be an 
omen of hope and peace. Adieu.” 


151 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


PART NINTH. ’ 

TOO LATE TO SAVE HIMSELF. 

What ! what ! daylight 1 Daylight 
<joming into the room, and Monsieur 
Claude not yet returned 1 Mon Dieu ! 
W'here can he be 1 ” And Tristan stum- 
bled up from the sofa in his master’s 
dressing-room, where he had fallen asleep 
at midnight. “ How chilly it is when 
one wakes suddenly in the morning and 
finds himself out of bed ! ” And he shiv- 
ered as he peeped through the blinds into 
the gray, deserted streets. “ It ’s always 
dreary before the sun rises. The sun 
makes all the difference between day and 
night ; still it is calm, very calm and 
silent ; the great city sleeps more heavily 
just before it awakes. It’s melancholy to 
think of thousands of people lying like 
dead bodies, entirely unconscious. How 
strange if they never should awake ! if 
the sun should never rise ! if it should 
never grow any nearer day, and I should 
be the only one awake in this great 
world, doomed to remain awake always, 
and to look from this high window out 
on to the gray, chilly city, with every 
sound hushed, and everybody sleeping 
forever ! Ah, what a fancy ! I have 
strange fancies always now. Certainly 
it ’s because I ’m ill and can’t live long. 
I ’m always thinking of dead men and 
graves, and those dreadful catacombs 
where my bones may be thrown some 
day, if I die in Paris. I wish Monsieur 
Claude would hurry back to Sarzeau. 
He always says he ’s going, and yet he 
does not go. It ’s Madame Celeste that ’s 
keeping him here. What ’s the use of 
searching for a thing when you don’t 
know where to search 1 She may be in 
Paris, she may be in England, or even 
farther, for all he knows ; and yet he re- 
mains here and runs the risk of being 
imprisoned, and perhaps guillotined, for 
the sake of finding another man’s wife. 
I should say it was n’t right, if it was 
any one else but Monsieur Claude. I 
know he must have some good reason 
for what he does, so I sha’n’t blame him ; 
but I do wish I could go back to Sar- 
zeau. I should like to feel the breeze 
from the sea, and hear the birds in the 
morning, and sit in the sun under Ja- 
net’s vines on the south wall. It ’s so 
much better there than in Paris. It 


may be very well to live here for those 
who like noise and crowds and danger, 
but to die here, oh ! ” And the poor 
soul shivered all over, as his thoughts 
returned to the dolorous subject that 
distressed him always. “ Monsieur 
Claude says it ’s foolish and wicked 
too to care where our body is buried, 
when our soul is in glory ; but for some 
reason I don’t like to think of this poor 
deformed skeleton being tossed about in 
the catacombs for people to look at and 
say, ‘ Poor unfortunate, he was a hunch- 
back ! ’ It ’s dreadful to think that one’s 
remains will show for years after how 
one was afflicted in life. The world looks 
at it as a sort of reproach, and blames 
the ill-fated creature for God’s doings. 
It ’s all deplorable enough, and my life 
might have been worse than a galley- 
slave's, if Monsieur Claude had n’t saved 
me from misery. How beautifully my 
days have passed with him ! It ’s every- 
thing to be always near one you love. 
I could n’t live away from him. 0, 
where can he be % Morning, broad day- 
light, and his bed empty ! He may be 
in prison even now, and if he is I shall 
never see him again. Hark ! some 
one is at the porte cocHere. I wish I 
could see the court from here. Ah, 
there he comes ! I hear his step on the 
stairs.” And Tristan sprang to the 
door and opened it with a radiant face. 

Claude entered slowly and heavily. 
He was very pale. His hair was dis- 
hevelled, and his eyes were red from his 
vigil ; still there was a deep meaning in 
his face, a stern, cold resolve, and his 
voice was harsh for the first time to 
Tristan, as he said, “ What ! have you 
been sitting up all night I Have you 
no more sense than to ruin yourself in 
this way I Don’t you know that the 
cold and fatigue will kill you I I have 
told you repeatedly not to wait for me 
when I was out.” 

“0 monsieur, I did not intend to; 
I went to sleep on the sofa, and when 
I woke it was daylight,” replied the 
hunchback, deprecatingly, while he 
busied himself with kindling a fire, for 
the morning was damp and chilly. 

Claude threw himself into a chair, 
and sat with his eyes fixed on va- 
cancy, mentally contemplating the scene 
through which he had passed since he 


152 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


left his room not many hours before. 
He scarce thought of the attack upon 
his person, although he was sore and 
aching from his struggle for his life. 
He did not feel any sensibility, any 
gratitude to God for saving him from 
the terrible danger he had encountered ; 
neither did he think of the sudden and 
dreadful death of his enemy, the swift 
and sure retribution that had followed 
his sin; for his soul was full of the 
revelations that had been made by the 
dying man. Many things that had 
seemed mysterious had been explained ; 
he had discovered Aim4e in La Marquise, 
and that discovery would remove the 
stigma that had rested upon his name 
for nearly ten years. Surely this was a 
cause for thankfulness and satisfaction, 
yet it did not arouse any emotion of 
that nature ; he was aching and smart- 
ing under a pain that he was not pre- 
pared to endure. In fact, he was ex- 
periencing a trial almost beyond the 
strength of humanity to bear. 

We can make great sacrifices, we can 
support great torments with becoming 
heroism, we can even find strength to 
endure the pains of death, for one we 
love. Being human, I say, we can do 
these for one we love; but as mortals 
can we do these things for one we have 
hated, for one who has wronged us 
bitterly, for one who has branded us 
with suffering 1 Can we forget our an- 
guish and our tears, and with placid, 
smiling lips bless the one who has 
cursed us '? Ah ! this is the crucible in 
which to test us, to discover if there is 
any divinity moulded into our clay. 

We know how Claude some time be- 
fore had tried, his heart filled with good 
intentions, to find this brother that the 
sin of his father had defrauded of his 
inheritance, and how he had never hesi- 
tated when he saw his duty clearly be- 
fore him, but had hastened with almost 
eagerness to fulfil it ; and now he did 
not suffer to know that his brother lived, 
and that he must resign his birthright, 
his title, his worldly goods, to him. 
There was no avarice in his feelings. 
He did not fear poverty, he did not 
unduly esteem pedigree, and to take 
the position of a second son was 
no annoyance to him. His suffering 
was not because he had found this 


brother, but because ho was a man he 
despised, his bitterest enemy, his most 
merciless persecutor, the one who had 
parted him from Cdleste, who had ruined 
his life, who had sacrificed his honor and 
his happiness, who had been false to his 
trust, who had betrayed, deceived, de- 
nounced and abandoned him in his hour 
of need, and knowing, with all that, that 
the same blood ran in their veins, that 
they were brothers. Was he not an 
unnatural monster, a cruel miscreant, 
who could so disregard the ties of re- 
lationship, and immolate his father’s son 
for his ambition, pride, and revenge ‘i 
What should he do 1 How could he, 
when there was no compulsion, heap 
benefits upon the one who had so 
wronged him 'I How could he, by sacri- 
ficing himself, put the top stone to the 
lofty structure of this man’s honors 1 
Had he not already enough ? He had 
robbed him while he held his inheri- 
tance in trust ; must he then impoverish 
himself to give this faithless guardian 
the remainder 1 And with all these tor- 
turing thoughts, a, to him, still more 
powerful reason than these why he 
should not resign all obtruded itself, 
for b^^ doing so he must lose the chance 
of assisting Celeste in her poverty. 
What would become of her, if left to the 
cold charity of the world i How^ could 
she live, when nothing more remained 1 
Had he not the right to take justice 
into his owm hands, and return to this 
defrauded w’oman the wealth her guar- 
dian had stolen from her 1 Was he not 
responsible for her w^elfare ; and if he 
had been the cause of her misfortunes, 
should he not make some reparation ? 
Then w’as it not absolutely his duty, un- 
der the circumstances, to keep the secret 
of these papers locked within his own 
heart 1 Or w as it not better to destroy 
them altogether, and so end the trial, 
and secure his future w^elfare, not for 
himself entirely, but for those dependent 
on him ? No living soul but himself 
knew of their existence; they wwe in 
his hands. A moment and the bright 
flame Tristan had kindled would destroy 
every trace of them forever, and leave 
him free to carry out his plans for the 
good of Celeste. The revelation that 
Justin Gautier had made on his death- 
bed, though true beyond a doubt, was 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


of no use in establishing Fabien’s claims, 
without the papers he possessed. If he 
destroyed them, nothing could be changed 
in his situation, he would still enjoy all. 
And now he knew Aimee lived, and his 
innocence of the crime that had driven 
him from Clermont could be established, 
and nothing could prevent him from 
returning there to triumph over his 
enem}^ And then when Month elon 
was in his possession, and he intended 
it should be as soon as the arrange- 
ments were concluded, and La Marquise 
had discovered Celeste, she should be- 
come its owner again, and reside there 
as in the old days. Such a possi- 
bility filled his soul with joy, and he, 
not knowing through what seas of fire 
he must pass before such a consummation 
could arrive, exulted to himself, and 
prematurely congratulated himself that 
he had not, from a far-fetched sense of 
duty, decided to resign these papers, 
and thereby lose the chance of such a 
blissful future. 

Methinks I hear my readers say, with 
some disappointment, “Alas, how has 
this fine gold become dim !” Have pa- 
tience a little longer, kind hearts. Re- 
member he was but human, and the 
temptation was terrible. And remem- 
ber also how this man had wronged 
him, and how difficult it is for mortals 
to be godlike. 

Tristan sat near the fire he had kin- 
dled, watching his master’s face closely. 
He Imew there was some powerful com- 
bat raging within ; and when Claude 
sprang up suddenly, and, going to his 
desk, opened it with an eager hand, the 
servant thought, “Now he has con- 
quered,” when in fact he was on the 
verge of a lamentable defeat. It is 
well for us that God does not judge us 
by the outwiird appearance, else we 
should come to confusion when we 
looked within. He turned over the 
papers with an impetuous hand, and 
drew from the bottom of the desk a yel- 
low package tied with a ribbon. He re- 
garded it for a moment, while a dread- 
ful pallor settled over his features ; 
then, with a gi’oan of anguish, he 
flung it on the table, and falling into 
a chair he covered his face with his 
hands. For more than a half-hour he 
sat there without a sound; then he 


153 

looked up and said in an unsteady voice, 
“ Tristan.” 

“Monsieur I” 

“ Tristan, I am in torment.” 

* “ In torment, monsieur 1 ” 

“Yes, I am suffering almost the pains 
of hell.” 

“ 0, how dreadful ! But have you 
done anything wrong 1 ” 

“I have, Tristan. It is because I 
have, and because I still wish to, that I 
suffer.” 

“ Have you found Madame Celeste, 
monsieur 1 ” For in Tristan’s estimation, 
Claude’s interest in another man’s wife 
was the only fault he had ever commit- 
ted ; and he could think of nothing 
else but the remorse for that, which 
could entail such a fearful punishment. 

“No, no, I have not found her. It 
is something new, something more try- 
ing than any trouble I have ever known. 
I have a great many strange things to 
tell you, Tristan. Mademoiselle Aim^e 
is still living, and I have seen her.” 

“ Seen her 1 0, thank God ! And you 
are not glad 1 ” cried Tristan in one 
breath, for Claude’s rather ambiguous 
words confused him. 

“ Certainly I am thankful to know 
she lives. Who has suffered from her 
disappearance more than I have, and 
who has greater cause for joy at her dis- 
covery 1 ” 

“ 0 monsieur, tell me, please, where 
she is, and when I may see her ! It 
will be like heaven to see her again.” 
And tears of delight ^ rolled over the 
hunchback’s wan face. 

Then Claude told him briefly of the 
scene through which he had passed; 
of the attack by P4re Benoit and his 
accomplices ; of the dying man’s deposi- 
tion as Justin Gautier, the discovery 
that the Archbishop was his brother, 
and that La Marquise was Aimee ; and 
of the existence of the necessary proofs 
which would take away his title and es- 
tate, to confer them upon his enemy : all 
of which Tristan listened to with tears 
drenching his face, while he wrung his 
hands moaning, “ Oh ! oh ! oh ! ” with 
every variation of sorrow. 

“ Now, mon ami,” said Claude, looking 
steadily at his servant, “ what would you 
think of the man who possessed those 
proofs, if he should throw them into the 


154 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


flames and watch them until they were 
consumed ” 

0 monsieur, I can’t tell you ! ” re- 
plied Tristan, hesitating. 

“ Tell me the truth ; what would you 
think of him 1 ” 

“ I should think he was still more 
wicked than Monseigneur the Arch- 
bishop,” said the hunchback, with a sol- 
emn emphasis on each word. 

Claude winced as he turned toward 
the table and took up the package of 
papers, saying, “ I am that man, Tristan. 
I have the proofs, and no one else. They 
are the papers I found in the old cabi- 
net at Sarzeau, and I have decided to 
.destroy them.” 

“ 0 monsieur ! ” And the servant drew 
away from his master with a look of 
horror. 

“ Yes, it is my duty. Think of it, if I 
give th^ to that man it will ruin me. 
I can do nothing for myself, nothing for 
those I love. I shall be poor, very poor ; 
for my father made no provision for a 
younger son, and I will not accept the 
charity of the man I hate,” cried Claude, 
lashing himself into a fury to find an 
excuse for the deed he intended to com- 
mit. 

“ But, monsieur, it is nothing to be 
poor, if one has done no wrong. Give 
Monseigneur the papers, and leave God 
to punish him, and we will work to- 
gether with a clear conscience and a 
light heart, because we shall have no 
great weight of sin to press us down 
and make us weary. I can work for 
you while I live, which may perhaps be 
longer than it would be if I knew you 
had committed such a sin.” 

“ 0 Tristan, it is not for myself alone 
that I suffer,” cried Claude, leaning his 
head upon the chimney-piece, with the 
papers still in his hand. The flames 
curled up crisply with a significant hiss, 
the coals gleamed like the hungry mouth 
of a wild beast. How soon, how very 
soon, all would disappear, if he should 
open his fingers and let the little bundle 
of papers drop into the devouring fire, 
and a breath would disperse the white 
ashes, all that would remain of the proof 
of his father’s sin and his enemy’s good 
fortune. The great drops of sweat 
started out on his forehead, strong fin- 
gers seemed to be clutching his throat, 


an iron band pressed upon his brain, 
and a leaden weight stopped the pulsa- 
tion of his heart. It was a moment to 
try both soul and body, a moment on 
which depended all his future. It was 
the crisis, the turning-point, in his moral 
as well as his physical existence. Tris- 
tan stood before him with his great eyes 
fixed upon his face in mute entreaty. 

“ Think, monsieur, think that God 
sees you,” he gasped ; think of your 
confusion and fear when you meet poor 
Genevieve Gautier in eternity. Forget 
the Archdeacon’s wrongs, and remember 
how she suffered. Do not destroy the 
papers, send them away at once, and 
you will thank God afterward.” 

“ I cannot, Tristan, I cannot. 0, I 
believed I had drunk all the bitterness 
of life before, but this is the drop that 
kills me ! I have been burnt in the fire, 
I have been trodden in the wine-press, 
but this is the crowning trial, the 
wrenching pain that wrings my soul be- 
yond endurance. 0 Tristan, Tristan, I 
cannot, I will not ruin myself, and every 
chance of my future happiness, for this 
man who has so wronged me ! ” 

“ Christ died for those who pierced 
him. His crown was given to him upon 
the point of a spear.” 

“ But I am not Christ-like, I am hu- 
man, pitifully human ; for what good- 
ness and strength I have gained from 
my discipline are all swept away. I am 
weak and powerless in the hands of 
Satan, who will conquer me. 0, I am 
mad, I am suffering beyond description ! 
If I give these up, my life is ruined ; if I 
keep them, like Judas, I shall dash my- 
self to pieces upon a stone. Take them, 
Tristan, for God’s sake take them ; take 
them out of my sight, where they wull 
tempt me no more.” And throwing the 
package to his servant, Claude fell on 
his knees and burst into tears. For a 
few moments he prayed silently, weep- 
ing while he prayed, and then he arose 
saying, “ It is over, Tristan, it is over, 
have no more fears. It is my last con- 
flict ; there can be nothing worse in store 
for me than what I have suffered this 
night. My dear old friend, I have had 
many terrible combats, and God has 
never deserted me, neither have you. 
In eternity, when my scars are counted, 
those that you have healed will plead 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


for you. Do not look at me with pity 
in your tender eyes ; look at me with 
joy, dear Tristan, for I am newly 
crowned ; the thorns are removed, and a 
crown of fresh cool bay encircles my un- 
worthy brow. You cannot see it, but I 
can feel it. 0, how great is the reward 
of a righteous determination ! I cannot 
understand why I hesitated ; now my 
duty seems easy, my sacrifice no sacrifice 
at all, but rather a blessing. When God 
removes one hope he gives us another ; 
already my future brightens before me.” 

“ Thanks be to him,” he thought, 
when I see her, whether here or in eter- 
nity, I can look into her face without 
shame.” 

Then he took the package of papers 
from the table where Tristan had laid 
them, and folding them carefully in a 
heavy envelope, he wrote with a steady 
hand the address of the Archbishop of 
Rouen, after which he looked at it for 
some time. His eyes red and heavy 
with weeping, his pale flbe stained with 
tears, bore traces of the tempest through 
which he had passed ; now its force was 
spent, and there was a settled calm, a 
peaceful, earnest intention in its expres- 
sion, that showed how important a vic- 
tory he had won. “ Tristan,” he said, 
as he put a number of stamps upon the 
envelope, “ give this to the porter, and 
tell him to take it to the post at once. 
I do not wish to keep Monseigneur out 
of his inheritance one hour.” 

But, monsieur, do you not intend to 
write some explanation, at least to let 
him know that you have sent him the 
papers 1 ” inquired the hunchback, who 
had felt some satisfaction in imagining 
the Archbishop’s discomfiture when he 
knew that Claude had so nobly resigned 
all to him. 

“No, mon ami, I do not. I might go 
to him myself and, with a great show 
of renunciation, place these proofs in 
his hands. It would make a very af- 
fecting scene, and would heap coals of 
fire upon his head; but I have not 
merited such a gratification. If God 
had not given me strength, I should 
have been no better than he is ; there- 
fore I have no right to exult over my 
victory, I should be only quietly thank- 
ful that I obtained it through the aid of 
another.” 


155 

Tristan took the package without any 
further remark, and left the room. 

An hour after, these long-missing 
proofs, that Fabien had searched for, 
that Justin Gautier had planned and 
plotted to get possession of, and which 
had caused so much suffering to so 
many, were travelling peaceably toward 
their destination. Monseigneur the 
Archbishop, at that moment reverently 
performing high mass in Notre Dame, 
little thought how near he was to 
the consummation of his long-cherished 
hopes. And Aimee, as she wept in re- 
morseful soiTow over the silent body 
of her father, had no impression of the 
struggle, the suffering, the pain, his 
revelation had caused to him she loved 
better than life. While in another part 
of the city a little scene was being 
enacted, that bore some moral resem- 
blance to the tragedy of eighteen hun- 
dred years ago, when the Jews came 
out with swords and staves to take one 
who had tried to save them. 

Tristan, after he had delivered the 
package to the porter, returned to serve 
his master’s breakfast with a feeling of 
relief that the troublesome thing was 
fairly off, and that there was now no 
chance to yield to temptation, even if 
one was tempted. 

While Claude drank his coffee and 
ate his rolls with a better appetite 
than he would have had an hour or 
two before, he said to Tristan, “ I 
have business to arrange which will 
detain me for some time. While I am 
away everything must bo packed and 
prepared, for we must leave Paris for 
Sarzeau in the three-o’clock train. I 
shall go there and await some communi- 
cation from Monseigneur. I hope ho 
will not try to deprive me of that little 
retreat. It is very dear to me, and if I 
may keep it I shall be content. We 
can be happy there, Tristan, can we 
notV’ Then he sighed and thought 
of Celeste ; his only hope for her now 
was in La Marquise. 

“ Happy 1 0 yes, monsieur ! one is 
rich enough at Sarzeau with very little. 
I will help Janot, and we will raise 
enough off the grounds to live on,” 
replied Tristan, eagerly, forgetting in 
the desire to do something for his be- 
loved master how vexy near he was 


156 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. ‘ 


to laying down his own burden for- 
ever. 

“ In any case we will stand by each 
other, my dear boy ; while I live you 
shall never suffer want,” said Claude, 
kindly, as he took his hat and gloves to 
go out. 

There was a tap at the door, and a 
servant entered with rather an alarmed 
manner, saying, ‘‘ Two men are in the 
antechamber who wish to see M. le 
Comte directly.” 

Claude walked peaceably toward them, 
drawing on his gloves as he went, never 
dreaming to what fate he was going. 
But when he saw the men, a sudden 
impression made him change color and 
falter. They stood near the door with 
folded arms and portentously grave 
faces. One was tall and thin, with a 
solemn aspect ; the other was short 
and stout, with a twinkle in his small 
gray eyes which told plainly that his 
gravity was assumed for the occasion : 
and both wore a sort of military un- 
dress. 

The taller of the two advanced to- 
ward Claude as he entered, and touch- 
ing his cap with an air half respectful, 
half supercilious, he said, ‘‘M. le Comte 
de Clermont '? ” 

I am he,” replied Claude, calmly. 

The tall man turned to the short 
man, who took a paper out of the crown 
of his greasy cap, saying in an under- 
tone, as he gave it to his companion, 
“ No trouble here ; a peaceable party ; 
gendarmes not needed.” 

“ Monsieur,” said the officer, in a 
deliberate voice, slowly unfolding the 
paper, which bore the enormous seal of 
the state, — “ monsieur, I have here a 
warrant from the government for your 
arrest.” 

Indeed ! ” said Claude, still with 
remarkable calmness. “ On what ac- 
cusation 1 ” 

The tall man passed the warrant to 
the short man, who, holding a single 
eye-glass very near his nose, glanced 
over it, saying, “ Political offences of 
a grave nature. Conspiracy against 
the administration. Incendiary articles 
written with revolutionary intentions, 
etc., etc. I hope monsieur will go with 
us peaceably.” 

“ Certainly. Allow me a few mo- 


ments to give some orders to my ser- 
vant.” 

“In our presence only, monsieur,” 
said the tall man, stiffly. 

At that moment Tristan rushed into 
the room with a face of ghastly pallor, 
and, throwing his arms around Claude, 
cried, “ Take me with you, monsieur.” 

The sudden appearance of the poor 
hunchback startled the men, and they 
drew back in evident dislike and annoy- 
ance at such a singular interruption. 

“You cannot go with me, my poor 
boy,” said Claude, gently caressing his 
hair ; “ the time has come when we 
must part, and God only knows for how 
long it may be.” 

“It will be forever, monsieur, it 
will be forever. When you leave me I 
shall die, as people die from hunger 
and thirst.” 

“ Hush, mon amiy you wring my 
heart. Have patience, it may not be 
for long. I shall be tried, and, I hope, 
liberated. I %m not guilty of any 
crime, then why should I be impris- 
oned i Go back to Sarzeau, and wait 
for me ; do not fret, for that will ruin 
your health. Try and live for me, 
Tristan.” 

But the poor creature only clung to 
him, sobbing in the wildest grief, “It 
will be forever, it will be forever.” 

“ Will monsieur do us the favor to 
accompany us as soon as possible % ” said 
the tall man, in a voice of cold author- 
ity, while the short man added, looking 
encouragingly at Tristan, “ The sooner 
monsieur goes, the sooner he ’ll get back. 
Don’t be down-hearted, my man ; you 
can’t tell anything about these arrests. 
People are suspected one day, and tried 
and liberated the next. If you don’t 
fret, I dare say you ’ll see your master 
back to-morrow,” he said, winking with 
one eye to the tall man, who responded 
by drawing his mouth a little on one 
side. 

Neither poor Tristan nor Claude 
noticed this by-play, nor the man’s in- 
sincere attempt to console them, for 
both were so wrapped up in their own 
misery as to be insensible to outward 
influences. Again the tall man spoke, 
and this time more imperiously. And 
Claude knew the moment had come 
when he must tear himself from the 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


157 


clinging arms of his faithful friend and 
servant. Raising the wan, tear- wet 
face to his, he said, “My dear boy, it 
may not be for long ; but if it should 
be forever on earth, there is a sweet 
rest for us in eternity, which we shall 
have won with much tribulation. Think 
of it, and desire it as I shall, and when 
it comes it will be most welcome. 
Rest assured we shall meet again, dear 
soul, without the fear of parting. Go 
to La Marquise and tell her all ; she 
will provide for you, for my sake. 
Farewell. Trust in God, and pray for 
me.” And bending over him he im- 
printed a long kiss on the pale fore- 
head, and then with a supreme effort 
tore himself away, and followed the 
men. 

Tristan stood looking after him until 
the door closed, then, with a heavy 
groan, fell senseless upon th^ floor, and 
lay like one dead. 


PART TENTH. 

LA ROQUETTE. 

“ The birds float by on free wings ; 
the drifts of white clouds sweep over the 
immense space of heaven; the wind 
drives them here and there, coming 
and going, to and fro, from the four 
corners of the earth. God has made 
everything free, and yet man dares to 
fetter his fellow-man.” And Claude de 
Clermont pressed his face against the 
iron bars of his cell in the prison of La 
Roquette, and looked with intense long- 
ing out into the blue sky and misty 
clouds that floated away serenely be- 
yond his line of vision. 

More than seven months had passed 
since that morning when he had said to 
Tristan, after his mental conflict was 
ended, “There can be nothing worse 
in store for me than what I have suf- 
fered this night.” And yet, since then, 
he had thought of those past sorrows 
as trifles light as air compared to the 
anguish that seemed to consume him 
in the unbroken silence of his cell. 

He had gone through a trial after his 
arrest, which was a farce, a mere mock- 
ery of justice ; and he had been con- 


demned to five years’ imprisonment, 
with but little hope of intervention or 
mediation from the outside world. 
When he had said, strong in the con- 
sciousness of right, that he was prepared 
to bear the consequences of his own 
acts, he had not imagined that they 
could be so terrible, or so impossible to 
endure. He had tried by every means 
left to him to communicate with La 
Marquise, that he might hear some 
news of Celeste, and whether poor 
Tristan had survived the shock of sep- 
aration. But neither letter nor message 
had been delivered; and he had re- 
mained during these seven long months 
in a state of the most harrowing anxiety. 
At first he had been calm and patient, 
praying to God for deliverance, and 
hoping against hope that something 
might occur to shorten the term of his 
sentence. He had great faith in La 
Marquise ; and knowing her influence 
with those in power, he believed she 
might effect his release, or at least dis- 
cover some means to correspond with 
him. But as weeks and months passed 
by, and no tidings from the outside world 
came to him, he began to think that he 
was abandoned to his fate ; and then a 
sort of frenzy took possession of him. He 
paced like a caged lion the narrow limits 
of his cell ; he wrung his hands ; he 
implored God wildly, impatiently, im- 
portunately, to deliver him from a living 
death. He raged like a tempest until 
his strength was exhausted, and then 
he would throw himself moaning upon 
his bed. All the hours of the solemn 
night had heard his heart-breaking sobs, 
his piteous prayers ; and the gray dawn 
had stolen into his grated window and 
found him still sleepless. His prison-fare 
was like dry dust in his parched mouth ; 
he loathed it, he could not force himself 
to eat, and the scanty supply of water did 
not allay the fever that was consuming 
him. His turnkey often looked at him 
with a dreary shake of the head, but he 
could do nothing to relieve him; he 
was not a brutal man, ho was only 
faithful to his trust. Claude had 
searched his face with its mingled 
expression of sarcasm and sadness to 
see if he could discover any hope of 
assistance ; but it was discouraging. It 
revealed pity, it is true, but an inflexi- 


158 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


ble determination to perform his duty, 
even at the sacrifice of compassion and 
mercy. Then there came a time when 
his paroxysms of rebellion and despera- 
tion exhausted his strength, and he was 
as feeble and fretful as a child ; weeping 
and complaining to the deaf, insensible 
walls of his cell as though they were 
the merciless human beings who had 
caused his woe. But that phase of 
suffering did not last long, and to it 
succeeded a quiet hopelessness, a resig- 
nation that was almost despair. At 
times he read and studied the few 
books that were allowed him. Again 
he resorted to the most trivial things to 
divert his mind from its anguish ; for 
he sat for hours with folded arms look- 
ing at the stones of his floor, counting 
them over and over, mentally arranging 
them into different patterns, tracing in 
their fractures, blemishes, and stains 
resemblances to faces and forms he had 
seen during the other life he had lived. 
Sometimes nearly whole days would 
pass in which he would be absorbed 
by memory, living over the scenes at 
Clermont, the free, wild life at Sarzeau, 
his wanderings among the mountains, 
his calm existence in the valleys, his 
dreamy idling on the golden sands of 
Quiberon, his restless tossing on the 
foam-dressed waves, the rapid, eager 
motion of the long walks over the bar- 
ren coast. All would pass before him 
in regular succession, like the panorama 
of a dream ; and then he would return 
to himself with a start to find his 
glowing visions, his broad distances, his 
freedom of motion, bounded by four 
narrow stone walls, that seemed to 
enclose him until they pressed upon his 
brain to suffocation. At first his win- 
dow had been covered with a shutter 
that only admitted a feeble light through 
a small aperture ; wdthin a few days, 
through the intercession of his turnkey, 
that had been removed, and a new 
world opened before him. From his 
casement he could see the backs of the 
buildings on the Rue de la Muette, and 
their living, moving inhabitants passing 
and repassing before the open windows. 
Sometimes an honest, fresh face would 
lean forth and look iip to the sky, and 
then turn with a motion of pity toward 
the prison. It was the face of an 


elderly woman, and she seemed to be 
a seamstress ; for she often sat for 
hqurs with her head bent over her 
work, and when she arose it w'as with 
the air of relief apparent in one who 
has finished a task. During nearly all 
the long days Claude would stand with 
his face pressed against his iron grating, 
watching every movement and sign of 
life in these habitations of the poor — 
for it was not a quarter of the city where 
the rich resided — with an interest felt 
only by one who is separated entirely 
from the world and its concerns. He 
had come to feel a sort of friendship for 
this honest face, that so often regarded 
him w’ith compassion ; and the little 
window by which she sat seemed a 
haven where his vexed thoughts could 
find repose. One morning he noticed 
some unusual signs; the small panes 
were being carefully washed, and fresh 
curtains were being arranged by dex- 
terous hands ; then some pots of choice 
flowers were placed upon the sill, and the 
blossoms were tied up and watered with 
the closest attention, and a small, 
gilded cage with a pretty, sprightly 
canary was hung above ; while the back 
of a soft-cushioned crimson chair gleamed 
with a charming effect of color betw'een 
the snowy lace of the curtains. “ It is 
being prepared for an invalid,” thought 
Claude, “ but w^hat a dreary view they 
have selected, — the uninviting walls of 
this prison, wuth rows of grated window's 
against which are pressed pale, despair- 
ing faces. However, I suppose it cannot 
matter much to one who is near eternal 
freedom.” While he was thinking of 
this, with his eyes still .fixed intent upon 
the window, he saw two men place the 
feeble form of a sick man in the chair, 
and then draw back, while a woman 
drew near with a small glass in one 
white hand, and a fan and smelling- 
bottle in the other ; she placed the 
glass to the invalid’s lips and fanned 
him gently, for he seemed to have 
fainted from exhaustion. The man was 
emaciated to a frightful degree, the 
body bowed and deformed ; while the 
face of the woman who bent over him 
was like an angel’s, with a silver crown 
about the head. “ My God ! ” cried 
Claude, in a voice that made the stone 
w'alls reverberate, “ it is Tristan and La 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


159 


Mcvrquise ; dear, suffering Tristan ! ” And 
for a moment it seemed as though he 
must wrench* away the bars and fly 
to him ; but no, he could not, so he 
only pressed his face against them and 
bathed them with his tears. When 
Tristan was sufficiently recovered to 
move, his first act was to lean from the 
window and fix his hollow eyes, with a 
searching scrutiny, on the walls of La 
Roquette, while Aimee supported his 
head and looked with him. Claude 
could see their gaze follow the line of 
windows until it rested upon his. Al- 
most frantic, he pressed his face against 
the bars with a force that wounded him, 
and waved his hand and kissed it, 
going through a pantomime of the most 
extravagant joy. In a moment the 
signs were returned ; they had recog- 
nized him, even through his bars. And 
Tristan, folding his arms over his heart, 
and raising his eyes to heaven, fell back 
in his chair with a smile of ecstasy 
irradiating his wan face. La Marquise 
weaved ‘ her white hand, and kissed it 
over and over, her eyes beaming with 
joy; then she drew back, and leaning 
over Tristan she ministered to him with 
the tenderness and gentleness of a 
mother, to show Claude that his poor 
suffering servant was cared for by her ; 
that she had not neglected him, neither 
had she forgotten her promise to assist 
her he loved. A burden seemed to fall 
from him, and, overcome with gratitude 
and joy, he sank upon his knees and 
poured out his soul in thanksgiving to 
God. 

Every day this affecting pantomime 
was repeated ; every morning with the 
earliest dawn Claude was at his case- 
ment, his face pressed against the bars, 
his eyes devouring the opposite window, 
until Tristan was placed in his chair, 
and Aimee was at his side, bending her 
lovely face over him, arranging his hair 
with her soft hands, feeding him with 
the most tempting dainties, or support- 
ing his fainting head upon her bosom. 
Sometimes the dying hunchback would 
rally enough to lean from the window 
and make some sign of love to his idol- 
ized master. He would kiss his hand, 
press it to his heart, point with expres- 
sive gestures of adoration to Aimee, 
take her white fingers in his, and raise 


them to heaven, making the form of a 
circle in the air to denote eternity ; and 
then, folding his arms, he would open 
them suddenly, waving them upward 
like wings, to show that he should soon 
fly toward endless happiness. Although 
the bars of a prison separated them, 
yet their souls conversed together, and 
held the sweetest intercourse. The days 
flew to Claude, and when darkness 
dropped a curtain between them and 
shut out their beloved faces, he felt as 
though he could not endure the hours 
until he could look upon them again. 
Every morning he said to himself, know- 
ing how frail was the poor life on which 
he fixed his hopes, “ This day may be 
the last, or this morning he may be 
already in paradise.” 

About ten days of this affecting in- 
tercourse had passed, when Claude 
knew that the last one had arrived. He 
was at his casement as usual with the 
first beam of the sun, watching the win- 
dow with earnest, anxious eyes. The 
curtains were drawn, and there was no 
sign of life until nearly midday ; then 
Aimee’s white hand opened the blinds 
and waved a sad good-morning to him, 
pointing within to show that the invalid 
was unable to leave his bed, after which 
she closed the window and returned to 
her attendance at his side. All through 
the day Claude remained at his post in 
a state of anxiety difficult to describe. 
From time to time Aim6e would appear, 
make a sad signal, and then withdraw. 
When the afternoon was declining, and 
the shadow of the prison fell long and 
gaunt across the court-yard, and the 
swallows inhabiting the niches in the 
massive wall began to make active prep- 
arations for their evening meal, Claude 
saw the window opened and the curtain 
drawn aside ; then two men appeared, 
laying the motionless form of Tristan 
in his chair, while Aim6e supported his 
head. At first he thought the spirit 
had already taken flight, and that it was 
the poor clay they had placed there for 
him to look upon, so still, so white, and 
lifeless did he seem. No, he was still 
living; for Aimee’s gentle hand was 
placing a cordial to his lips, and his 
feeble fingers were moving upon his 
breast with a faint fluttering motion 
like the wing of* a dying bird. After a 


160 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


few moments he opened his eyes and 
raised his head to take a farewell of his 
beloved master. He tried to clasp his 
hands to show his happiness, but they 
fell powerless. He turned his face up- 
ward with a smile of ineffable peace, 
raised one thin, trembling finger toward 
heaven, and then sank back into Aimee’s 
arms. The last beams of the sun 
touched with a benediction the silvery 
halo of her hair, and rested upon the 
white forehead, the hollow cheek, and 
closed lids of Tristan, as La Marquise 
watched the breath flutter from between 
his parted lips that murmured her name 
with his master’s until they were silent 
forever; then Claude saw her lay the 
poor, lifeless head back upon the pillow, 
press a long kiss on the placid brow, 
and make the sign of the cross over his 
still heart, and so he knew that the 
aching, deformed body was free from 
pain forever, and the freed, happy soul 
was at rest with God. Aim4e wiped 
away her tears and raised her eyes up- 
ward, seeming to say to him, “ A little 
longer and we shall weep no more.” 
Then the shadow of night fell between 
them, and Claude, crushed, overwhelmed, 
dissolved in tears, sank upon his misera- 
ble bed, and wept and prayed away the 
dreary hours. 

Three months more had dragged away 
their weary length since the night of 
Tristan’s departure for his new home, 
and Claude had watched in vain for an- 
other glimpse of Aim^e’s face. She 
had never come again. A few days 
after the flowers had disappeared, the 
singing bird had been removed, and the 
invalid’s chair had been replaced by the 
ordinary seat of the poor woman, who 
again bent over her w’ork, raising her 
head now and then to glance compas- 
sionately at the barred window’s of La 
Roquette, and Claude’s life had returned 
to its old monotony, its old, hopeless res- 
ignation ; but he was less miserable 
than before, for now he was relieved of 
the anxiety that had preyed upon him. 
He was confident La Marquise had kept 
her promise regarding Cfileste, and he 
knew poor Tristan was safely disposed 
of for eternity; so there was nothing 
but his owm miserable failure to brood 
over, which was not so desperate and 
comfortless, since he had had this brief 


reunion with his old ties. He found 
himself oftener looking toward the heav- 
ens than the earth. There seemed to 
be no possibilities of a future for him. 
His country that he had so loved, that 
he still loved with the deepest compas- 
sion, was cruel, ungrateful, unconscious. 
Those he had tried to save had turned 
upon him and wounded him. His heart 
had been full of noble intentions, un- 
selfish desires, and warm interest for 
humanity, and humanity had crushed 
him, wrung his soul, and abandoned 
him to despair. Therefore he felt that 
earth had no place for him, that he w’as 
one of the pariahs to whom God some- 
times opens his doors when the world 
drives them out. He prayed often — 
not hoping for mercy from man — that 
a Divine power would interpose and 
shorten the term of his punishment; 
that his prison doors might be opened, 
not to a feeble, exhausted body, but to 
a triumphant, exulting soul that had 
left behind its garment of tears and 
scars. 

One afternoon he sat on the edge of 
his narrow bed, his hands clasped list- 
lessly, his sad eyes searching the intense 
blue of a June heaven, striving if per- 
chance he might discover some angel 
face smiling upon him from the trans- 
parent ether, when a noise at his door 
startled him. It was not the hour for 
the turnkey’s visit, and this unusual 
interruption filled him with surprise. 
He started to his feet with an eagerness 
that showed how hope always lives 
within us, and looked with parted lips 
breathlessly, as the' heavy door rolled ‘ 
back on its hinges, and admitted a 
woman, wrapped in a dark mantle, with 
a heavy veil covering her face. 

Remember, madam, an hour is not 
long,” said the turnkey, as he closed 
the door. 

“ Aim4e ! ” cried Claude, as she threw 
aside her veil. 

“ Claude, dear Claude ! ” and she 
threw herself weeping into his arms. 

For a moment they sobbed passion- 
ately together; then she drew away 
from his embrace, saying, “We have no 
time to waste in weeping, for I have 
much to say, and an hour is nothing.” 

“ You have been ill,” said Claude, 
looking at her changed face sorrowfully’. 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


161 


Her complexion was pale, — the sickly, 
opaque pallor of parchment ; her cheeks 
had lost their roundness, her temples 
were sunken, showing the blue veins 
through which ebbed and flowed the 
sluggish tide of life, while her great 
eyes seemed to float in purple shadows, 
and her white, transparent hands had 
the vague, languid motion and the 
cold damp of those who are already 
touched with the last chill. 

“Yes, I have been ill, very ill, ever 
since poor Tristan died, or I should not 
have left you alone so long. I should 
have visited you at the window every 
day.” 

“ How did you learn where my cell 
was situated 1 ” 

“ Through bribing an officer. 0 
Claude, I have almost moved heaven 
and earth in my effort to release you. 
I have been myself on my knees to the 
Emperor.” 

“For me 1 0 Aim^e, I have not 

deserved this ! ” 

“Yes, for you; but he would not 
listen to me. He who once courted my 
smiles refused me the only favor I ever 
asked of him. May God punish him as 
he deserves ! Do you know why he 
refused me 1 ” she cried, with a flash 
of her old fire. “ It was because I had 
lost my beauty, my charm. My power 
went with it. I did not flash upon 
him in my former splendor, as La Mar- 
quise, the most lovely lady in Paris, 
but I tottered before him, pale and 
weak, an unhappy suppliant ; and he 
had no ear for my prayer, no smiles, 
no false flattery. He refused me, and 
dismissed me coldly. Then I implored 
the influence of those beneath him 
in power, but I failed. All I coidd 
gain was permission to see you. for one 
hour. 0 my God, how I hate the 
world, the cringing, false, cruel, unjust 
world ! I have tested it, and hate it, 
and thank God with every breath that 
I am nearly done with it. What is a 
woman’s powder 1 Her beauty, her mir. 
erable, perishable beauty ; and when 
sickness and suffering take that away, 
she is helpless. I once boasted that I 
could command and I should be obeyed. 
Now I entreat, and no one listens. 0 
Claude, I would willingly have given 
my life to have saved you from this. 


but it is not of enough value to shorten 
your imprisonment by one day.” 

“ I implore you, Aim^e, not to add 
to my suffering the memory of such 
bitter words. To me you have been 
an angel of mercy. Your goodness to 
poor Tristan removed a heavy burden 
from my weary life. And Celeste 1 ” 

“ She is provided for, Claude ; she is 
free. You can now love her without 
sin. A few weeks ago Sir Edward was 
found dead in his bed. Celeste is a 
widow.” 

Claude seemed so paralyzed by this 
news that he made no reply. 

“ I bought Monthelon. I searched 
everywhere for her. One day I was pass- 
ing the Mont de Piet6, and she and Eliz- 
abeth came out ; they were dressed so 
poorly that I scarce recognized them. 
They had been to pawn their last article 
of value. Now they are living at Mon- 
thelon, comfortable, and God knows I 
hope they are happy.” 

“You are an angel,” cried Claude, 
clasping her thin hands in his. “0 
that I may live to show my gratitude ! ” 

“Tristan died happy, after he saw 
you. His sorrow was heart-breaking 
when you were taken away. I think 
he never ceased to weep until death 
dried his eyes. However, when I knew 
that La Roquette could be seen from 
the window of a seamstress who worked 
for me, I did not allow myself to rest 
until I discovered, by bribes and en- 
treaties, that your cell was on the side 
visible. Then poor Tristan, although 
the doctor said he was dying, implored 
so pitifully to be brought here, that I 
complied ; and the sight of your face, 
even between bars, rendered his last 
hours blissful. And he went to heaven 
strong in the faith that I was all-power- 
ful, and would in the end secure your 
freedom. I have tried, Claude, but I 
have failed, and the failure is killing 
me ; every day that you remain here 
takes one week from my life.” 

“ 0 Aim6e, do not suffer so for me, I 
am not worthy of it.” 

“ I brought all your sorrow upon you 
by my folly and passion, and my re- 
morse is consuming me.” 

“Do not accuse yourself, it is God’s 
doings, and he cannot be unjust. Let 
us bow to his will together. Our sor- 


1G2 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


rows will end when eternity opens its 
portals to us ; let us wait patiently, 
dear Aimee, until that moment arrives.” 

“Ah, my God! it is true, there is 
nothing enduring here but sorrow and 
tears j when they end we are at rest for- 
ever. I have prayed for you, I have 
wept for you, more than for myself. 
Your name is branded upon my heart. 
I tell you it now, because by that you 
will know with what suffering I have 
made my expiation. My pride is dead, 
slain by my own hand ; my vanity is 
clothed in ashes ; my ambition is but for 
a grave where you may sometimes drop 
a tear. There is only one who can pro- 
cure your release, — the one who de- 
nounced you, who betrayed you, the 
Judas who later will be consumed with 
remorse as I now am. I shall go to 
him and on my knees implore him to 
undo the work he has done. I shall 
bow before the man I hate, because he 
has wronged you, even though he has 
heaped favors upon me. I shall tell 
him of your noble renunciation, which 
I learned from Tristan, — how you cour- 
ageously gave him the proofs that con- 
ferred his title, his honorable birth, 
upon him ; and if that godlike act does 
not touch his nature, then he is alto- 
gether inhuman, a monster fit only for 
the fires of hell.” 

“ I entreat of you not to humble 
yourself to the Comte de Clermont.” 
Claude winced when he applied his for- 
mer title to his enemy, iDut he did it 
knowing it was his by every right. “ It 
will be useless, he is invulnerable ; nei- 
ther prayers nor tears can avail for me.” 

■ “ I shall go, nevertheless. It is nearly 
a year since he saw me ; perhaps when 
he looks upon my changed face his 
heart will soften. I will leave nothing 
undone to make you happy at last. 
You will be free, you will marry Celeste. 
And if you but bless my memory, my 
soul in paradise will know it and rejoice, 
and my poor heart will throb in the 
silence and darkness of my grave.” 

“ Aim4e, my beloved sister 1 ” cried 
Claude, entirely overcome with emotion, 
“my good angel, I adore you with an 
adoration holier than any earthly affec- 
tion ; my love for you is something sub- 
lime and reverent, worthy to be eter- 
nal. 0, why have I known you so late 1 


or w’as I blind, that I did not discover 
the beauty and nobility of your nature 
long before 1 But now that we have 
come to understand each other, why 
speak as though this parting was for- 
ever'? We may both be happy for many 
years, my beloved ; but if we miss the 
fruition of our hopes on earth, we shall 
find them hereafter. Let us forget the 
pains and passions of life, its disappoint- 
ments and regrets, and look calmly for- 
ward to that complete existence which 
we are being schooled for by the faith- 
ful hand of God.” 

They sat side by side on the hard 
couch, where Claude had so often wept 
away the long hours of the night, with 
clasped hands and tear-drenched face. 
An arrow of sunlight struck across the 
stone wall, and fell lower and lower 
until it reached the silvery -waves of 
Aim^e’s hair ; there it rested a moment, 
and then passed away in scattered ra- 
diance, like the beams of glory sur- 
rounding the head of a saint. The hour 
had gone, but a moment remained, and 
still they sat looking into each other’s 
faces, silent and solemn, for both felt 
that it was for the last time, that now 
the supreme pain of the moment of 
parting forever on earth had arrived, 
and neither had power to utter the fare- 
well. At length the steps of the turn- 
key outside aroused them, and Aim^e 
said in a faint, broken voice, “Courage, 
dear heart,” while she clasped the hand 
of Claude as though they stood in the 
face of some terrible danger. “ Courage, 
this is our last j^arting ; -when we meet 
again my happy face will wear the 
smiles of youth, and thou shalt look at 
me with eyes free from tears.” 

“ The hour is up,” cried the turnkey, 
throwing open the door. 

“ Thou shalt be free, Claude ; courage 
and hope, thou shalt be free. My love 
has ruined thee, but it shall end in sal- 
vation. One last embrace. Thou wilt 
smile on me in eternity.” 

Claude clasped her in his arms, cover- 
ing her face v/ith tears and kisses, while 
he sobbed, “ God bless thee, my darling, 
God bless thee ! ” 

“ Farewell. Thou knowest how I love 
thee, therefore I have not suffered in 
vain. It will not be long until w^e meet 
again. Courage, patience, dear Clar.de.” 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


163 


And then she pressed his hand again in 
hers, and smiled with an expression of 
angelic sweetness ; and looking back 
from the door smiled again, raising her 
sad eyes upw^ard. And so she passed 
from his sight forever. 


PART ELEVENTH. 

A DAY OF WRATH. 

There was no light in the study at 
Clermont but the faint light from the 
dying embers in the chimney. Day 
had gone, and the soft shadows of even- 
ing had crept in unnoticed by the 
Archbishop, who sat in his carved chair 
by the table, on which lay the neglected 
instruments of his occult studies, his 
head bowed in his hands, absorbed in 
thought. It was just one year since 
the night he had refused La Marquise 
the favor she had implored, and he had 
not seen her since, nor had she shown 
any signs of relenting, after the stern 
and haughty manner in which she had 
dismissed him from her presence. If 
he had foreseen what suffering his ban- 
ishment would bring upon him, he 
might have hesitated before he pro- 
nounced the fatal word that doomed 
him to such a punishment. But he was 
not clairvoyant enough to understand 
how much greater was her love than 
her gratitude ; and he was wounded to 
the quick, that she, forgetting all his 
kindness and favors, should espouse the 
cause of another, and treat him with 
insult and scorn because he had refused 
to do the same. He had said over and 
over to himself, ‘‘ If she should come to 
me and implore my forgiveness on her 
knees, I would not pardon her. Her 
ingratitude, her cruelty, have imbittered 
my heart against her. My Aimee, the 
little girl I saved from want and suffer- 
ing, and educated and cared for as 
though she had been my own, died 
indeed that day when she disappeared 
from Clermont. I never again found 
her in the haughty, imperious Marquise 
de Ventadour ; still I supposed I had 
some claims upon her affection and 
consideration, but she has disappointed 
me, she has proved herself as thankless 


as the perfidious ingrates who turn 
upon you and sting you after you have 
warmed them to life. I will dismiss her 
from my heart ; she is dead to me, I 
will think of her no more.” Although 
he had determined to banish her abso- 
lutely from his thoughts, he had failed 
to do it, for she haunted him persis- 
tently, and his life was but one long 
desire to see her again and to effect a 
reconciliation. Still he had defeated 
his own wishes ; for bitterly and re- 
vengefully he had at once denounced 
Claude to the government, and pro- 
cured his arrest, after the failure of 
their efforts to remove him privately. 
At last his vengeance was complete, for 
with the news of Claude’s arrest came 
the long-missing proofs that disinher- 
ited the unfortunate young man, and 
installed him in his place. Where these 
papers came from was a profound mys- 
tery to the Archbishop. He sometimes 
thought that Justin Gautier had played 
him false, that he had gained possession 
of the proofs, and retained them for 
some reason of his own, until when 
dying he had repented and caused them 
to be sent to him in this singular man- 
ner. Then again everything seemed to 
contradict that supposition, and he was 
more puzzled and uncertain than be- 
fore ; for he wished most earnestly to 
know who had resigned these important 
papers, after keeping them back for 
more than forty years. However, this 
very natural curiosity did not prevent 
him from enjoying to the full his new 
honors. Since the day he had heard 
from his dying mother that he was the 
rightful heir of Clermont, he had never 
for one hour forgotten his intention, 
his determination, to, reinstate himself, 
and prove his mother’s innocence, no 
matter at what cost. It had been in 
reality the aim of his life. He had 
kept his own counsel, his name, his 
purpose, a secret from all but Justin 
Gautier, whom he had discovered in 
the released convict who defied God in 
the sombre gloom of the park of Cler- 
mont. From that moment the two had 
worked together, professedly for the 
same purpose ; but while the wretched 
man had but the one object, which was 
to crush and ruin the son of the man 
he hated, Fabien had the double desire 


1G4 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


of revenge and self-aggrandizement to 
urge him on to the consummation of his 
plans. Now, after years of anxious 
search, useless labor, and disappoint- 
ment, suddenly, when he had almost 
ceased to hope that his greatest ambi- 
tion was to be realized, these proofs 
had been placed mysteriously in his 
hands, and without the slightest oppo- 
sition he had taken possession of his 
long-coveted inheritance and title. Now 
indeed he had arrived at the summit 
of earthly prosperity, he was Count of 
Clermont and Archbishop of Rouen ; 
an important personage in both Church 
and State. But for some reason, when 
he rode in grand equipage from the 
Bishop’s palace, which he often did, to 
pass several days in each week at his 
chateau of Clermont, it seemed as 
though he were going to his own burial, 
and that the beautiful pile he had so 
desired to possess was a magnificent 
tomb prepared for his reception. The 
vast, lofty rooms seemed to chill him, 
and the silence appalled him ; the 
study, that once had been his favorite 
resort, now made him shudder when he 
entered it, for his morbid imagination 
filled it with impalpable forms, and 
every shadow was haunted by pallid, 
reproachful faces. Sometimes the skull 
that looked from its iron casement 
would assume the face of the former 
Comte de Clermont, and, from the hol- 
low orbits, eyes filled with lurid light 
seemed to gaze intently upon him, and, 
whichever way he turned, those same 
eyes followed him, piercing, inquiring, 
steadfast, until, almost terrified, he 
would rush from the room to find 
relief in pacing hurriedly the long ave- 
nues of the park. Again Aimee seemed 
to fill the place with her presence, 
mocking, laughing, singing, coaxing, the 
wayward sprite that had transformed 
the stern silence of the chateau into 
merry music ; or, haughty, scornful, bit- 
ter, she seemed to stand before him, 
pointing imperiously to the door while 
she said in tones that made him shiver, 
“Go, Judas, go; I have looked upon 
thee for the last time.” Then the scene 
would change, and she would approach 
him pale, wan, solemn, and taking him 
by the hand would lead him forth 
through long stone galleries, damp and 


odious with prison smells, and heavy 
with foul vapors, until they reached a 
barred door which she would throw 
open to reveal a dark, narrow cell where 
sat a young man, on the edge of a 
miserable pallet, listless, hopeless, with 
swollen eyes and haggard, despairing 
face. Then, pointing to the forlorn pic- 
ture, she would fix her deep eyes upon 
him and say, “ There is thy work ac- 
complished.”. In no matter what place 
he was, the same scenes passed before 
him. During the solemn ceremonies 
in Notre Dame, when he bowed his 
mitred head before the altar, a voice 
seemed to whisper to him, “ Prepare 
for a day of wrath ; prepare for a day 
of wrath ” ; and a phantom-like proces- 
sion seemed to mingle with the smoke 
of the incense rising and floating away 
into the shadows of the vaulted roof, 
while they looked back upon him re- 
proachfully, ominously, threateningly. 
He had swallowed eagerly the long- 
desired draught of gratified revenge 
and ambition that he had distilled from 
the tears of his victims, and it had 
turned to liquid fire wdthin him. It 
was consuming him, torturing him, 
rendering his days miserable and his 
nights a burden. Yet still he endured, 
for his hateful pride would not allow 
him an antidote. He had planted 
thorns in his pillow, and he did not 
intend to complain because they pierced 
him. Now, as he sat alone in the 
gathering gloom, he was absorbed in a 
sort of retrospective view of his life, 
following step by step his own ascent 
up the ladder of prosperity, until he 
had reached all but the topmost round, 
on which rested the coveted hat of a 
cardinal. As in imagination he leaned 
forward to grasp it, the structure gave 
way beneath him and precipitated him 
suddenly from his ambitious height 
down to the ghostly silence of his 
gloomy study. Springing up he pulled 
the bell violently, for he could not 
endure darkness; and as the servant 
appeared hurriedly at his imperative 
summons, he said in a stern, harsh 
voice, “ Why do you leave me here 
without either light or fire 1 ” 

“Monseigneur did not ring,” returned 
the man in a timid, deprecating voice, 
as he set the candles upon the table, 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


1G5 


and prepared to stir up the fire to a 
blaze. 

The Archbishop took the bellows 
from his hands, and blew the fire furi- 
ously, as if he could by so doing evap- 
orate his wrath, that the slightest an- 
noyance provoked. 

“ Will Monseigneur need anything 
more at present!” inquired the man, 
as he lingered with an air which seemed 
to indicate that he was afraid to leave 
the room, and equally afraid to remain. 

“ No, you may go.” 

Now, in the full blaze of the candles 
and the light of the glowing fire, the 
changes during a year in the face of 
the Archbishop were strongly apparent. 
The hair that fell below his purple cap 
was of an iron-gray, his face was marred 
with lines indelibly stamped by passion 
and remorse, and his brows were 
fiercely contracted, while his deep- 
set eyes looked forth from their shad- 
ows with the uneasy, evasive expression 
of one who knows not where to seek for 
peace, and his mouth, that once denoted 
gentle firmness, was now compressed 
with cruel severity and stern resolve. 
When he arose to pace the floor, im- 
pelled by an unappeasable restlessness, 
it was evident that his once upright and 
vigorous form was more bowed than it 
should have been in so short a time. 

“ How the hours drag,” he said, look- 
ing at his watch with the impatient fre- 
quency of one who wishes the moments 
to pass more swiftly, — “how the hours 
drag, when the elasticity of youth is 
gone and the blood flows slowly through 
the veins ! Once the days were too 
short for my earnest occupation, my 
ardent desires, my lofty intentions. I 
climbed upward with the sun, and when 
he declined I still kept on unwearied at 
my labor. Now I rise heavily, I go 
through the dull routine of my duties, 
and before day has reached his zenith I 
am fatigued with everything around me. 

0 for the irresponsible nature of youth, 
that wears its little sorrow like a light 
garment to bo thrown aside at will, 
while in later years even honor and 
prosperity become burdens that corrode 
and poison the heart ! Had I ever an 
infancy ! Had I ever a boyhood ! All 

1 can remember is my mother’s tears, 
my own poverty, self-denial, hunger. 


I and cold. Ah, they are not pictures that 
shine out warm and bright from the 
background of one’s memory ! Once I 
thought true felicity consisted in hav- 
ing enough to eat, a fire in winter, plenty 
of covering for my bed, and all the 
books I needed for my studies ; now I 
have all these in abundance, and yet I 
am farther away from happiness than 
when I only coveted the necessities of 
life. Our wants increase with their 
gratification, and to always desire and 
never possess is, after all, the only en- 
joyment. Do we not sometimes defraud 
ourselves and mar God’s plans with 
foolish haste ! Is it wise to rush heed- 
lessly to the end, thereby entangling 
the threads of fate to involve ourselves 
in hopeless confusion! If we are just 
and wait patiently, will not God’s inten- 
tions mature for our profit ! Have I 
not been a moral suicide, far is man less 
a sinner who puts to death his own hap- 
piness than he who puts away his life ! 
With my present feelings I might say 
that my existence had been a failure, for 
I have missed what men most desire 
to possess, human affection. I cannot 
think of one being who loves me. It is 
the fate of mental superiority to live 
above the little needs of the heart. 
Why should we, who have so much, de- 
sire what was only intended for babes 
and weaklings ! Love, love, it is the 
most puerile of human passions. Pride, 
ambition, a desire to soar above the 
feeble beings who surround us, these 
are aspirations laudable and godlike. 
And there is no spontaneity in grati- 
tude ; it is a base reward one toils to 
earn, and even then he is often defrauded 
of his wages. Love, gratitude, they are 
alike dainty luxuries for effeminate na- 
tures. Thank God, I have outlived the 
weakness of such sentimental longings ! 
In other times, when there was some- 
thing sweet and fresh in my heai’t, I 
did desire love, her love, that strange, 
bewitching child ; how she crept into 
my heart with her serpent-like charm, 
her insinuating grace ! Yes, I loved 
her, I adored her ; but now she is dead 
to me. 0 my Aimee, my Aim6e, why 
did you defraud me of the wages I 
toiled so hard to earn! Some one at 
the door ! I can never be alone and 
undisturbed. Knock as long as you 


166 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


please, you will not get in. I have 
other guests now that fill all my heart.” 
And he closed his lips with stern re- 
solve, while he walked away from the 
door without replying to the soft tap, 
tap. “ I have told that stupid Jean 
never to disturb me, never to approach 
my door until I summon him. And 
yet he dares to disobey me. Come 
in,” he cried, in a harsh voice, as the 
knock was repeated a little more im- 
patiently. And believing it to be his 
servant, he turned in the middle of the 
floor with his most cruel expression, his 
most forbidding aspect. 

The door softly opened, and in the 
shadow stood a woman, draped from 
head to foot in mournful purple, while 
her snowy hair, pale face, and hollow 
eyes made her look more like a spectre 
than a human being. “ Mon pere,'' she 
said softly and sweetly as she ap- 
proached him, “ 1 have come to implore 
your forgiveness. Your Aimee has re- 
turned to you, penitent. See, I am no 
longer the imperious woman who drove 
you from her presence a year ago. I 
am your Airnee, your humble, suffering 
Aim^e. What, you will not speak to 
me, you will not forgive me ! 0 mon 

ptere, remember how you loved me 
once ; forget all my ingratitude, all my 
cruelty, and take me back again into 
your heart.” And she laid her thin 
hand gently on the^folded arms of the 
Archbishop, and looked into his face 
piteously. It might have been a mar- 
ble face, with eyes of metallic glitter, 
for all the life there appeared to be in 
it. He did not seem to see her, he did 
not seem to hear her, but stood with 
terrible inflexibility in every line of his 
upright figure. 

“ Look at me, mon pere, cannot you 
see that I am dying? I have risen 
from my sick-bed to come to you. 
My physician told me it was madness, 
it was death, to do so ; but still I dared 
it, because I could not die without 
your forgiveness, because I could not 
die away from Clermont. I have come 
back to my dear old home, my child- 
hood’s home, to die in my room where 
I dreamed away my blessed girlhood. 
You will not turn me away. You are 
master here. You are Comte de Cler- 
mont, but you will not turn your poor 


Aimee away from your heart and house. 
Open your arms, and let me die there. 
I have come to them for shelter. 0 
mo7i pere, take me into your heart 
again.” And falling on lier knees, she 
pressed her lips to his hands, and wet 
them with her tears. 

The Archbishop drew away, and 
looked at her as she knelt before him, 
her head bowed, her pride at his feet. 
And as he looked, an arrow seemed to 
pierce his soul. With a groan of agony 
he opened his arms and cried, “ Come 
to my heart, come forever.” 

Nearly a month passed, after Aim^e’s 
return to Clermont, in the most peace- 
able relation with the Archbishop. He 
was gentle, afiectionate, tender toward 
her, striving by every means to make 
her forget that he had ever for a mo- 
ment treated her with coldness or cru- 
elty. And she was the old Aim6e in 
her sweetest moods, but never again 
the Aim^'e that once changed the stern 
silence of the chateau into merry music. 
Her voice was never heard but in 
feeble, languid tones, whose failing 
sweetness seemed to have a touch of 
heaven’s melody in them. She glided 
through the corridors or sunny garden 
walks, leaning on the arm of the Arch- 
bishop, with a languor and helplessness 
which was touching. She was thin and 
weak to a pitiful degree, but she suf- 
fered no pain, no distress. 

When the Archbishop, with sinking 
heart, asked her physician the nature 
of her disease, he shook his head sadly, 
and replied, ‘‘ I cannot say, mon seign- 
eur. It is one of those cases that 
baffle medical skill. She seems to be 
consuming — melting away, one might 
call it — under the heat of an inward 
fever. The mind, acting upon the body, 
has wasted it until there is no more 
substance to feed upon than there is in 
the shell of a crystal vase. It is true, 
the life still flickers there, shining faintly 
through ; but a breath will put it out, 
monseigneur.” 

During all this time La Marquise 
had tried to win the love, the confi- 
dence, the tender sympathy of the 
Archbishop by every gentle art. She 
had established the best possible terms 
between him and Celeste, while Eliza- 
beth was her devoted and unwearied 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


1G7 


nurse. It was affecting to see these 
three w’omen together, each trying to 
outdo the other in demonstrations of 
love. Celeste, in her deep mourning, 
sad and suffering, but patient ; talking, 
thinking, and dreaming of poor Claude 
in his prison-cell. While Aimee, with 
her feeble flame of life just ready to be 
extinguished, comforted, assured, and 
promised her that all would be well. 
“ The Archbishop will not refuse me 
when he knows it is my last request,” 
she said. “ I have not spoken of it 
yet, because I wished to soften his heart 
with my love, so it would be ready to 
listen and melt at the story of poor 
Claude’s suffering. And he does not 
know yet that it was he who sent the 
proofs of his mother’s marriage. When 
he knows all, rest assured that he will 
use every effort to release him ; and he 
will not strive in vain, for with his 
powerful influence he can accomplish 
all he wishes.” 

One evening, after a day of excessive 
weakness, Aim4e expressed a wish to be 
dressed and assisted to the Archbishop’s 
study. She had not left her room, and 
so she had not seen him for the day. 
Now she sent her maid to say that she 
would spend the evening with him. 
“ 1 am very weak, dear Nanon,” she 
said, while she leaned her head against 
the shoulder of her maid, who was 
brushing out the silver waves of her 
hair. “ After I am dead, cut ofl' a 
long, thick tress, and give it, with your 
own hands, to M. Claude, when he 
returns to Clermont. It will be all 
that will remain of La Marquise. Alas, 
there is nothing left of Aim6e but the 
poor heart that will soon be dust ! ” 

“ 0 madam, you will recover, you 
will live to see him again ! ” cried Nanon, 
bursting into tears. * 

“Yes, ma cliere, I shall see him again, 
but not here, not here.” 

When she entered the study, the 
candles were lit, and a bright fire was 
burning on the hearth, before which sat 
the Archbishop, benevolent, bland, and 
peaceful ; for he did not know how near 
his day of wrath had approached. 
When he saw her, he arose with a 
warm smile, and led her to a large 
easy-chair, that had been placed there 
for her comfort, saying, “You are better 


this evening, ma chh'ie ; your cheek 
has some of its old color. Without 
seeing you, the day has been endless. 
Why did you not come down for a little 
air ? Clermont is curing you ; already 
you are more your old self. Why have 
you remained all day in your room 1 ” 

“ I was saving my strength for this 
evening. I have so much to say to 
you, mon per e. No, I will not have the 
chair ; I wish to sit, for this once, in my 
old place at your feet.” And nestling 
close to his side, she leaned her head 
upon his arm, and raised her eyes to 
his with trust and love. 

There was a silence for a few moments, 
while the Archbishop looked intent on 
the face upturned to his, and perhaps 
for the first time the terrible chiinge in 
it smote his heart with a sharp pajn. 
It was indeed like a crystal vase through 
which the soul shone softly. 

“ Mon pere^' she said, pressing her 
head a little closer against his arm, 
while she smiled with something of her 
old playfulness, “ when Nature planned 
me, she made a mistake for some reason, 
for I am a sort of a paradox, in a degree 
unnatural ; I might say when I am 
most contented, then I am most dis- 
contented ; when I am the happiest, then 
I am the most miserable ; and when I 
am near arriving at the consummation 
of my ardent desires, then I wish it de- 
ferred. I havp been very wayward and 
sinful, I have caused you much suffer- 
ing ; yet I sometimes rejoice in it, for I 
know you will all remember me because 
of the scars I have left. I have prayed 
and longed with inexpressible longing 
for death. I have wished to discover 
the mysteries of eternity, and now they 
are near being revealed in all their sub- 
lime beauty. I gather this veil of earth 
around' me, and do not care for the 
crowning of my desires. Is it because 
your tenderness, your love, has made 
earth so sweet to me at last % ” She felt 
a tear drop upon her forehead, and she 
went on with the most winning gentle- 
ness. “ You have completed your good 
work toward the poor child you saved 
from misery, by making her last days 
so peaceful ] and you still have the 
power to render them even blissful. I 
know now you will not refuse my last 
request, the only thing your poor Aimee 


168 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


will ever ask.” She felt him shiver, and 
the hand she clasped grew suddenly 
cold and rigid. “ 0 mon pere, do not 
refuse me now ; crown your love with 
a beautiful diadem of mercy. Forget 
your animosity toward poor Claude, and 
rescue him from his terrible imprison- 
ment.” 

The Archbishop, still paler than the 
pale pleader who sat at his feet, drew 
away coldly from her feverish, clinging 
hands, and said, in a voice that bore 
little resemblance to his former tones 
of loving interest, “ Aim4e, you ask too 
much ; you presume upon my pity and 
love for you to implore assistance for 
one whom I have no power to assist. 
M. de Clermont is alone to blame for 
his punishment, and he must bear it as 
others have before him, with patience 
and fortitude.” 

The poor face clouded, and heavy 
tears fell over her cheeks. “ Think a 
moment, mon pere, before you refuse 
me. He has committed no crime, he 
has suffered much, and he is wasting 
his life in a dreary cell. You, with 
your powerful influence, can procure 
his release ; and beside,” she continued 
more warmly, more impressively, “you 
owe him something ; he performed 
toward you an act truly noble and 
heroic.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ It was he who sent you the proofs 
of your mother’s marriage.” 

“Is it possible 1 ” And his face ex- 
pressed the deepest surprise, but no 
relenting. “ How came he possessed 
of them ^ ” 

“ He discovered them hidden in an 
old cabinet at Sarzeau, which had been 
removed there from Clermont.” 

“ And he retained them for I cannot 
say how long a time; that was truly 
honorable ! ” 

“ He did not know you were his 
hrother until he learned it from my 
unfortunate father on his dying-bed ; 
M. de Clermont alone knew of the 
existence of these papers. A less hon- 
orable man might still have retained 
proofs that disinherited him. Can you 
not see how noble an act it was 1 ” 

“No, I see only a simple right. If 
he had not done as he did, he would 
have been a contemptible villain ! ” 


cried the Archbishop, with an explosion 
of wrath that made Aimee tremble and 
draw away from his side. 

“ Then,” she said, hopelessly, “ you 
will do nothing for him 'I ” 

“ I cannot ; I have no power to 
change the decree of the state.” 

“ 0 mon pere^' she cried at last, with 
a supreme effort, “ I implore you not 
to refuse me ; I entreat you to promise 
me that you will do what you can. 
Think of poor Celeste; she has loved 
him so long, her suffering will kill her, 
as mine has killed me. Look at me ; I 
am dying, and every hour that Claude 
remains in prison takes months from 
my life. If you have no pity for him, 
for Celeste, have pity for me. I have 
suffered so, I have so little time to live, 
promise me, 0 promise me, that you will 
try to save him, and I will bless you 
with my last breath, and I will meet 
you so joyfully in heaven. 0 mon pere, 
do not refuse your Aim4e the last 
request she will ever make of you.” 
And falling on her knees before him, she 
clasped his hands and drenched them 
with her tears. 

The Archbishop was in terrible agony, 
the dawn of his day of wrath had come. 
He stood up and trembled like an aspen 
in the wind ; a white foam gathered on 
his lips, and his eyes were distended 
as with fear, while he cried, “ My God 1 
my God ! ask me anything but that, and 
I will do it ; but that I cannot do.” 

Aim6e staggered to her feet, and, lean- 
ing against the chimney for support, 
she clasped her hands and raised them 
to heaven like one asking succor from 
God, while she cried in tones that 
echoed in his ears until they were dull 
in death, “ My Claude, thou wilt know 
in eternity how I gave my life for thee. \ 
Father in heaven, deal not with this ^ 
merciless man as he has dealt with the 
defenceless. Do not let remorse con- 
sume him, as anguish has consumed 
me. Forgive me, 0 God, for all the 
sins of my life, and let me sit at thy 
feet in eternity.” Then her hands fell, 
her head drooped forward, and she 
would have sunk unconscious to the 
floor, had not the Archbishop clasped 
her in his arms. 

How that night passed to the misera- 
ble man he never knew. It was a tern- 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


169 


pest of anguish through which he was 
whirled pitilessly, for remorse had al- 
read}" begun to torture his soul with 
a pain impossible to soothe. When he 
saw Aimee sink lifeless before him, he 
believed she was already dead, and a 
frenzy took possession of him. He hung 
over her, he implored her to listen to 
him, he accused himself of killing her 
by his refusal to grant her request ; but 
when he discovered that she had only 
fainted from excitement, a reaction took 
];)lace, and he was ready to congratulate 
himself that he had promised her noth- 
ing. All through the night he. paced 
the floor of his room, torn to pieces with 
conflicting emotions. Anxiety for Aimee, 
which the frequent messages from her 
room ihat she was slowly recovering 
did not relieve, mingled with the regret 
that he had added another pain to her 
suffering heart, and that he had allowed 
to pass an opportunity to win her devo- 
tion, and bind her more closely to him. 
When the dawn came, pale and haggard 
he still struggled. It was the Dies irce of 
his soul. Solemnly, mournfully, pealed 
the strains of vengeance through and 
through the silent chambers, where he 
battled with the demons who were loath 
to deliver him up to the angels of 
mercy, who, calm and white, hovered 
above, waiting to bear his first tear of 
penitence to God. All through the day 
the conflict raged ; he saw no one, not 
even his servant ; he locked the door of 
his oratory, and throwing himself prone 
before the crucifix, he extended his 
hands, crying, “Miserere mei, Deus, mise- 
rere ! ” All the sins of his life seemed to 
press upon him, a burden that only 
God’s mercy could remove. He was 
suspended over a gulf of raging fire, he 
was scorched and shrivelled with the 
heat of Divine indignation. Voices that 
seemed to resound with the reverbera- 
tion of ages rolled into his presence, 
question upon question. “Unfaithful 
steward, where are the treasures com- 
mitted to thy keeping 1 Shepherd of 
souls, where are thy sheep 1 ” And from 
such demands as these there could be 
no evasion. An eye searched him now 
that saw through his garment of hypoc- 
risy, and dragged his most hidden sin 
to "light; so he could only extend his 
hands and clasp the feet of the dying 


Christ, crying with broken tones of pen- 
itence, “Miserere, miserere.” 

The swift wrath of God had poured 
upon him a terrible retribution ; it 
crushed, overwhelmed, and conquered 
him. When the day was nearly done 
the burden rolled off from his thankful 
soul, and he arose to his feet a new man. 
The white-winged angels who hovered 
above banished the defeated demons, 
and gathering up the first tears of peni- 
tence that the Archbishop had ever 
shed, they soared away toward the bat- 
tlements of heaven, bearing with them a 
freed soul that had won its ransom with 
tears. 

After this day of wrath the Arch- 
bishop presented a forlorn appearance. 
He needed to wash away the tears, the 
traces of his conflict, to compose his 
disordered dress, and to break his fast 
for the first time in twenty-four hours. 
Then with a placid mien and a thankful 
heart he presented himself at Aim^e’s 
door to impart to her the result of his 
day’s seclusion. “ How happy she will 
be ! She will live to bless me, dear sweet 
sufferer ! She has conquered nje with 
God’s help. Henceforth I will live for 
others ; for her first, and then for all 
humanity. 0 benignant Saviour, thou 
shalt find in me from this day a faithful 
servant ! ” 

Nanon was peacefully sewing in the 
casement of her mistress’s antechamber. 
The slanting rays of the declining sun 
fell over her white cap, and rested, a bar 
of light, from the window to the closed 
door. The Archbishop’s gentle tap 
startled her, and she looked up with 
surprise at his calm and gracious face. 

“ How is your mistress 1” he said as 
he glanced at the work in her hand ; 
“ she must be better if she does not 
need your care.” 

“ She wished to be alone, mon seign- 
eur,” replied Nanon, rising and placing 
her embroidery in her basket as she 
spoke. “ This morning she seemed bet- 
ter than I expected, after her attack of 
last night, and she wished to get up 
aijd be dressed as usual. After she had 
written a short letter, she took some 
wiiie-whey, and then she said with such 
a smile, dear angel ! — 0 monseigneur, 
she is an angel!” — and Nanon wiped 
away the tears, that perhaps were tears 


170 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


of gratitude because her beloved mis- 
tress had already reached such a state 
of perfection, — “ she said, giving my 
hand a little clasp and jtissing it, ‘ Dear 
good Nanon, you have been very kind and 
faithful to me, think of me when I am 
gone ! ’ 0 monseigneur, as though I could 
ever forget the angel ! ‘ Yesterday I 

hoped I might live longer, but to-day I 
know I have lived long enough. Now 
leave me alone, I wish to pray undis- 
turbed. I wish to prepare for my last 
communion ; leave me until the sun sets, 
and then come to me.’ So I closed the 
door and left the sweet saint to pray. I 
suppose her prayers are for others, for 
she cannot need them for herself. Now, 
monseigneur, the sun is just setting, and 
I will go to her.” 

“ Let me go to her first, Nanon,” said 
the Archbishop, wiping away his tears. 
“ Let me go and pray a moment with 
her.” So crossing the antechamber 
softly, he pushed open the door, and, 
entering, closed it after him. 

Aim6e was kneeling at a Prie-Dieu, 
her hands clasped on the crimson cush- 
ion, her forehead bowed on her clasped 
hands. The soft light that streamed in 
through the azure curtains of the win- 
dow fell over her silvery hair and 
white dress, bathing her whole figure 
in a sort of ethereal radiance ; the 
room was filled with a solemn silence 
that was only broken by the clear strain 
of a bird that floated by the open case- 
ment away into the distant heavens 
like a freed, happy soul. 

“ She is absorbed in prayer” ; and the 
Archbishop crossed the floor softly, and 
laid his hand upon her bowed head, say- 
ing, “ Accept my benediction, my child.” 

She did not move, she did not reply. 
God had touched her with his benedic- 
tion an hour before. 

Nanon heard a dreadful cry, a heavy 
fall, and, rushing into the room, she saw 
the Archbishop lying prostrate before 
the kneeling figure of her mistress. 


PART TWELFTH. 

CROWNED AT LAST. 

Perhaps there is no deeper feeling 
of discouragement, dissatisfaction, and 


regret than that with which an author 
lays down his pen at the conclusion of a 
long task, that he knows he has only 
half completed, in spite of the good 
intentions and ardent hopes with which 
he commenced it. And mingled with 
this disappointment is a feeling of sor- 
row at parting with the companions 
who have borne him silent company 
during a journey marked by so many 
disheartening failures. They have all 
become very dear to him ; he has 
smiled with them and wept wuth them, 
been exalted by their triumphs and 
humbled by their defeats. Therefore 
he suffers to think that the world may 
not understand them as he has, may 
not feel the same charity, patience, and 
affection for them that he has conceived 
during the silent hours of the night 
and the renewed intimacy of the day, 
when they have been his absorbing 
though sometimes wearying associates. 
Now as I am about to say adieu to 
this cherished, though unsatisfactory 
endeavor, I experience all that others 
have proved before me ; and as I 
glance at the title I have selected for 
my last chapter, I am conscious of the 
cruel irony of the words if applied to 
my labor. But as it is only my small 
procession of conquerors wLo have 
merited to be crowned at last, I bow 
my diminished head patiently under 
my garland of rue, not entirely dis- 
couraged if I may be allowed to hope 
humbly that some time in the future it 
may be changed to a modest wreath 
of bays. 

A year, a year to-day ; for a whole 
year, that seems even ages, I have en- 
dured this bondage. If one year can 
be so long and so difficult to support, 
what will four more years bring me 
to ? ” And Claude de Clermont looked 
hopelessly from his casement into the 
distance, that he had haunted with his 
gaze until every line and tone were as 
familiar to him as the four walls of his 
prison. “ I hoped Aimee would have 
accomplished something toward my de- 
liverance, but it seems that she has 
failed to gain the assistance of the 
Archbishop. I was almost certain her 
effort would be in vain ; his heart is 
destitute of pity. I am abandoned to 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


171 


my fate. 0 Celeste, my darling, one 
barrier between ns has been levelled by 
the hand of God, but the injustice of 
man has raised another that I can only 
pass over to my grave. My health, my 
reason, my hope, are fast sinking under 
this weight that presses me down. A 
little longer and my earthly deliverance, 
if it comes at all, will come too late. 
Poor Aimee must be ill, for if she were 
able she would have been at yonder 
window to give me some sign of love 
and hope. She is the only one who can 
do aught for me ; if she has failed, there 
remains no other prospect of liberation.” 
And overcome, as he had been so many 
times, by the anguish of hope deferred, 
he buried his face in his pillow and 
wept freely, feeling that the tears would 
perhaps cool the fever of his brain. It 
was the hour for his noonday meal, so 
he did not raise his head when the door 
of his cell was opened, believing it to be 
the turnkey who entered with his food, 
until a voice, once familiar, but now 
changed and broken with emotion, said, 
“ Look up, my brother. I am come to 
release you.” 

Claude started as though an angel 
had spoken to him, and raising his tear- 
wet face he saw the Archbishop stand- 
ing before him with outstretched arms. 
In an instant he had flown to their 
shelter, and, pressed against the heart 
of his brother, was weeping and thank- 
ing God, forgetful of injuries, wrongs, 
and suffering. 

At length the Archbishop, who had 
sobbed like a child while he caressed 
and kissed the head of Claude, raised 
his happy face, and looking at him with 
love and sorrow said, “ Poor boy, how 
you have changed ! Can you ever for- 
give me for the misery I have caused 
you 1 ” 

“ The happiness of this moment 
atones for all,” cried Claude, rapturously 
kissing the hands that still caressed him. 

“ The past is dead ; my cell shall be its 
tomb ; here we wall bury it and leave it 
to decay. 0 my brother, my brother ! ” 
And he could say no more, for his joy 
choked his utterance. 

“ Here,” said the Archbishop, showing 
him a document bearing the enormous 
seal of the state, which at this time had 
no ominous meaning, — “ here is your 


pardon. I have neither slept nor slum- 
bered since I promised to procure 
it.” 

“ And Aim4e I I thought she would 
have brought it to me.” 

“ My boy, she is an angel in heaven. 
It was only when I saw her dead before 
me that I promised what she implored 
almost with her last breath. I would 
give all the years of sorrow that are 
in store for me, all my honors, all my 
wealth, if I could but see the smile of 
joyful gratitude that death has defrauded 
me of. But she already is happy in 
paradise ; she knows I have fulfilled 
her wish, and she will bless me here- 
after.” 

“ She will live forever in our hearts ; 
we will remember her as we remember 
the saint who watches over our lives,” 
said Claude, reverently. 

“Let us leave this place; while I 
remain here I suffer remorse the most 
poignant. Come, Celeste waits for you. 
She shall be your wife, all shall be as 
you once wished it ; nothing shall be 
changed. You shall still be Count de 
Clermont ; for my title, my inheritance, 
are henceforth in heaven, and I desire 
nothing earthly.” 

Before Claude left his cell, he looked 
once more with tear-dimmed eyes on 
the window that had enclosed a sad, 
touching picture, which never could be 
effaced from his memory, and, stooping, 
he pressed his face for the last time 
upon his pillow, so lately wet with 
hopeless tears, and murmured a prayer 
of thanksgiving to God, who had deliv- 
ered him from his sorrows. Then, tak- 
ing the arm of the Archbishop, he left 
the place that was the grave of de- 
spair, hate, revenge, and regret, as well 
as the gate to future joy, love, and 
hope. 

The soft shades of evening were 
gathering among the -branches that 
hung over the winding avenues of 
Clermont ; the air was balmy with the 
breath of May, and melodious with the 
sweet good-night strains of the little 
songsters who fluttered above their new- 
made nests. Nature was in one of her 
most gracious moods. Tender, gentle, 
fragrant, tuneful, she had scattered beau- 
ty and blessing over the day, and now 
she was, obliterating the golden tracks 


172 


A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR. 


of the sun with the sweet, purple violets 
of the night. 

The pines that grew in sombre com- 
panionship above the shaded turf of the 
All^e des Soupirs murmured together 
sadly, but not ominously, for there were 
no spirits but the spirits of love and 
peace abroad this evening, and they 
touched caressingly the bowed heads of 
Claude and Celeste as they walked with 
clasped hands, talking softly of the mor- 
row, that was to crown their happiness 
with a holy benediction. 

“We will never talk of the sorrows 
of the past but as of blessings in dis- 
guise,” said Celeste, raising her soft 
eyes, filled with adoration, to the face 
of her companion. 

“ We will never talk of them at all, 
my Celeste ; we will remember only the 
good, the noble, the sweet deeds that 
have won for us such a crown of happi- 
ness. Let us sit here and watch the 
last tints of sunlight paint the winding 
river with the saj^phire hue of hope. 
With this day ends our old life, and to- 
morrow begins our new. May we keep 
in constant remembrance the mercy and 
goodness of God, who has brought us 
together at last ! ” 

“Elizabeth had a letter from Philip 
to-day. He will be home in a month. 
She has seemed happier since she re- 
ceived it. I think she will not say No 
to him when he returns. I hope not, 
at least. 0 Claude, I am very happy, 


and I wdsh every one else to be the 
same ! ” 

“ There is no reason why they should 
not marry now, for dear Aimee has left 
Elizabeth a handsome legacy, and they 
can live at Monthelon, since the Arch- 
bishop insists upon my retaining Cler- 
mont. Is he not kind to us, darling] 
He seems to desire nothing besides our 
happiness. To-day he said with such 
sadness and gentleness, ‘ I shall often 
visit you at Clermont ; it is holy to me 
as the place where my Aim^e laid aside 
her garments of earth. But I shall 
never leave the palace ; it is under the 
shadow of Notre Dame, and near her 
grave. It wdll be my home until I am' 
laid by her side.’ ” 

“ How he loved her ! ” said CMeste, 
tearfully. And then they fell into si- 
lence, while they watched the twilight 
gather over the river, the distant town, 
and the slender spires of St. Ouen. 

Suddenly on the still air tolled 
slowdy, solemnly, majestically, the ves- 
per bells of Notre Dame, calling alike 
the happy, the sorrowing, and the 
sinful to their evening orisons. 

It is the hour when the Archbishop 
goes to pray and weep by the tomb 
of Aimee. 

Toll softly, ye vesper bells, above the 
silent sleeper and the sorrow^-stricken 
mourner, for when your matins ring 
out, they will sound like marriage- 
chimes, musical with gladness and hope. 


THE END. 


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A Rolling Stone. By George Sand 
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